


Keep Making Trouble 'Till You Find What You Love

by Rena



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Adorable Assholes, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pining, Stucky Big Bang 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 14:17:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7848298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rena/pseuds/Rena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We should date,” Bucky blurts out, inspiration suddenly striking.</p><p>That gets him Steve’s attention, at least. “Excuse me?” he asks.</p><p> “No no no, hear me out,” Bucky says. “You wanna get back at them, right? Imagine the following: We date, fall madly in love, then have the most horrendous breakup in history and make them deal with that. They’ll feel terrible because they set us up, and we get to eat free ice cream and see their faces when we eventually tell them we pulled one over them,” Bucky finishes with a smug grin.</p><p> “That’s a terrible plan,” Steve says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Making Trouble 'Till You Find What You Love

**Author's Note:**

> Behold my contribution to 2016's Stucky Big Bang, otherwise known as the “our asshole mutual friends set us up on a blind date and didn’t tell us it was a blind date, so we spent the entire ‘date’ scheming against them and decided an awesome way to get back at them would be to pretend to date and then have a horrendous breakup but now that we’re two months into this charade we’re not sure what’s real and what’s fake anymore” AU
> 
> [Velnillaa](http://velnillaa.tumblr.com/) made the beautiful art for this fic, which you can also find on her tumblr [here](http://velnillaa.tumblr.com/post/149366534930/heres-my-art-for-soldieronbarnes-sbb-fic-keep).
> 
> A massive thank you goes out to [Nasti](http://archiveofourown.org/users/decideophobia) and [Julia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wearing_tearing/pseuds/wearing_tearing) for cheering me on, and [Ava](https://gowritealready.tumblr.com/) for the beta.
> 
> P.S.: Don't google Cleistocactus strausii unless you are prepared to be scarred for life. Or you don't have a mind as dirty as mine, that works too, probably.

 

“ _Shhhh_ ,” Bucky hisses, eyes comically wide, trying to put a silencing finger over Steve’s lips and missing by about a mile. He ends up mostly bopping Steve’s nose, and dissolves into breathless giggles when Steve tries to swat his hand away with an indignant look on his face.

“You’re shushing _me_?” he asks in the kind of stage whisper that can probably still be heard by the neighbours two stories above them. “You’re the one making the ruckus.”

“Shhh,” Bucky reiterates, still laughing. “Neighbours.”

Not that keeping their voices down will do them much good. Bucky is actually surprised that the jarring, grating noise of the fire escape being pulled down hasn’t woken up the entire building. Usually, old Mrs Hendricks on the fourth floor would’ve already stuck her head out of the window to yell at him. Then again, Bucky has always been climbing the fire escape fairly frequently - and screw you very much, Natasha, just because he often forgets his keys does not mean he has dementia, it’s perfectly normal for a guy in his mid-twenties to be a little...disorganised - maybe Mrs Hendricks has just gotten so used to the clanging that she sleeps through it now.

Or maybe she’s bitten the dust. She is awfully old, almost as old as she is mean. And you never know when the end might come for little old ladies, no matter how tough they seem to be.

Bucky doesn’t like Mrs Hendricks very much - a feeling that is very much mutual - but he still feels slightly guilty about that particular train of thought. It’s not that he wants to get rid of her, it’s just that he really wants her to stop clucking her tongue disapprovingly at his long hair, and at the people he chooses to bring home, and just generally at him every time he so much as breathes in her direction. He still doesn’t know whether she hates him because of his “lifestyle choices” or because of that time he accidentally stepped on her rat-sized dog, which, as he will insist until his dying breath, was _not his fault_. That little creature is just as evil as his owner, enjoying weaselling between people’s legs and tripping them up, and then watching with unconcealed vicious glee on its tiny, ugly rat face as they get chewed out by Mrs Hendricks.

He’s _not_ being overdramatic, no matter what Natasha says.

The loud clanging cutting through the night as this night's conquest stumbles up one of the metal steps rips him out of his dark musings. He turns around to find Steve frozen on the spot, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It’s beyond adorable, which is not a word Bucky would usually apply to anyone, much less tall, hunky men with a shoulder-waist ratio to die for, but it’s kind of fitting for Steve.

“They’re gonna think we’re trying to break in,” he says, sounding slightly panicked. Who would’ve thought that a guy who’d been about three seconds away from punching an entire gang of frat boys harassing distraught young girls not half an hour ago would be so afraid of even giving the impression of breaking the law.

“Not breaking in,” Bucky reminds him. “It’s my apartment. I go in through the window all the time, no one’s gonna call the cops on us.”

Steve shoots him an unimpressed look.

“Hey, pal, if you’d rather we could just fuck out here. At least then you wouldn’t have to worry about being mistaken for a burglar.”

Even in the darkness, he can tell that Steve is blushing. He can’t really see much in the low light, but he swears the embarrassment is almost audible. “That’s _worse_.”

“Not a fan of exhibitionism, then?” Bucky asks sweetly, grabbing a handful of Steve’s shirt to tug him along. “Shame.”

“Not everyone’s a peacock, James.”

“See, you say that, but then you wear shirts like that and get hot and bothered by all of this,” he gestures down his body, “so I think you’re a dirty rotten liar.”

Steve snorts. Bucky graciously ignores him in favour of sliding open the window to his bedroom. It takes him a few more fumbled tries than usual, so he's clearly a little more buzzed than he thought, but as per usual, though the window is slid shut, the latch isn’t properly locked, which is about as close as Bucky ever gets to being responsible in terms of burglary prevention. Usually he just leaves it open all the way during nights like these, hot and sweltering and too sultry to function, even when he goes out, which is probably the height of stupidity, but it’s not like he owns anything worth stealing, really.

He could probably work on his skills in being a responsible adult.

Finally, the window slides open, and Bucky crows in victory. “C’mon,” he says impatiently. They almost fall all over each other as he drags Steve inside, and then Steve’s mouth is on him, hot and insistent as he crowds him towards the bed, and Bucky loses himself in the warm and sticky slide of their bodies against each other.

**∞**

Bucky wakes to the early morning sunlight stabbing his eyelids and an angry voice that only aggravates the dull pounding inside his head. He had hoped, vaguely, in his drunken stupor, that he’d wake up to a nice, long, thorough blow job, a hot shower and a nice cup of coffee. Well, the 'nice' descriptor for the coffee is debateable, because the brand he buys admittedly tastes like acid, but it is usually strong enough to kill his hangover and get him up and running for the day. Enough, at least, so that he could study for his Applied Mathematics in Mechanical Engineering test, and then he’d spend the rest of the night lazing on his couch watching Netflix and eating pizza.

But of course his morning turns out to be the opposite of his perfect fantasy, because the universe fucking hates him.

Bucky groans, decides he’s not physically or emotionally equipped to deal with whatever shit is going on right now, rolls over and pulls a pillow over his head to block out the light. It also has the added benefit of muffling the angry noises coming from behind him. He can still hear an unfamiliar guy yelling, something like _the fuck are you_ , and really, there should be laws against people making noise this early in the morning at hung-over people. Luckily, his upstairs neighbours’ constant fighting has made him a pro at ignoring stuff like this.

It works great, until there’s a finger insistently poking him between the ribs.

Which is to say, it works great for about four seconds after the yelling starts and he first sorta-kinda-not really blinks awake.

“James,” Steve says, sounding way too alert, “why is your roommate yelling at me?”

And that sentence makes no fucking sense at all. If Bucky were marginally more awake, it’d probably make him pause.

“Please tell me we didn’t fuck in his bed so you could piss him off.”

“Don’t have a roommate,” Bucky slurs, trying to burrow deeper into the covers. And then Steve’s words trickle through to his brain, and he freezes for a split second before shooting upright. The abrupt movement makes him dizzy and slightly nauseous. As does the wide-eyed realisation that even though he distinctly remembers taking Steve home with him last night, this is definitely _not his fucking room_.

If the Iggy Azalea poster on the wall didn’t clue him in, the angry, bald, middle-aged man in the doorway wielding a bat definitely does.

He’s totally gonna judge the dude for his craptastic taste in music and wall decoration as well as for being a fucking creep later. Much later. When he’s not busy trying to get the hell out of dodge.

“Shit,” he curses, “shit, shit, fucking _fuck_!”

He scrambles to step into his boxers and gather his clothes up in his arms before booking it through the window. The man continues to weakly shake his bat and scream about calling the police even after Bucky has already run down one flight of stairs. He pauses on the landing, against his better judgement, because as much as he knows he has to get away as quickly as possible, he’s also currently still the only one to have exited the apartment, and he really doesn’t want his one night stand to get brained.

Steve’s too hot to have his beautiful face bashed in.

Steve could also probably (totally) take the man, judging by what Bucky has seen last night, but he also remembers Steve worrying about noise complaints and being mistaken for a burglar. In all likelihood he’s still in there trying to apologise.

Idiot.

“Steve, get a fucking move on!” he yells, and finally Steve dives through the window, red-faced and fully clothed. Apparently he is way more concerned with propriety than Bucky is. Fuck it, as long as he’s not streaking and risking arrest for indecent exposure, he’ll take it. Better to have half of New York see him in his underwear than staying in that apartment for a single second longer than absolutely necessary.

The apartment that he apparently accidentally broke into last night, thinking it was his own. Technically making Steve the burglar he’d feared to be mistaken for.

Oops.

They rush down the stairs and then down the alley, which is another experience Bucky could have seriously done without; stepping barefoot into a pile of trash and whatever else covers the pavements of Brooklyn back alleys that he doesn’t even want to think about has always been on his to-do list, right under having a conversation with Donald Trump, which he wants to do sometime never.

“This way.” He pulls Steve along, dashing down the block. It’s too early on a Sunday morning to be truly busy on the streets, and coupled with the New Yorkers’ innate and inimitable ability to give absolutely zero fucks they thankfully don’t attract much attention save for a few curious glances and some wolf whistles. He turns down the next alley - and hey, would you look at that, that one’s actually his - before doubling over with laughter.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasps, clutching his stomach. “Oh my God, did you see his _face_?”

It’s all he has time for before Steve rounds on him, crowding him against the wall. Unfortunately not in a way that implies heated make-outs and adrenaline fuelled sex in the immediate future.

“What the fuck,” he seethes, “was that?” Anger is radiating off him, constrained by tensely coiled muscles, and if Bucky had to guess he’d say the flush on his face is caused by equal parts exertion and righteous fury.

Bucky valiantly tries to tell his body that it’s not hot and this is not the time to pop a boner, and only mostly fails.

“Uh,” he tries weakly. “Wrong apartment?”

“Wrong a-” Steve starts and then cuts himself off with some visible effort. “Do you think this is funny? That was breaking and entering!”

“You almost assaulted four guys in a bar last night but this you have a huge problem with?” Bucky asks, slightly baffled. He expected Steve to not be happy about this, but he didn’t anticipate such an extreme reaction. After all, everything is fine. This is the kind of awesome story about drunken shenanigans that you’d never get tired of telling.

“I don’t go around starting fights and breaking the law for the hell of it.”

“Neither do I. It was an honest mistake, man. You were distracting.”

“Are you seriously trying to blame this on me?” Steve asks, incredulous.

“Well, yeah.” Bucky shrugs. “I mean, I’ve been a lot drunker than I was last night and still made it home just fine, but apparently I wanted in your pants so badly you made me forget how to count blocks. Because that -” he points over Steve’s shoulder, “is my block. And my apartment. With my bed. And no roommate or crazy people wielding bats to disturb us,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

It’s a pretty damn good offer, if he may say so himself.

“I can’t fucking believe you,” Steve says harshly, and then he turns around and stalks off, leaving Bucky standing alone in a dirty alley in his underwear, with a half-mast and no number to contact him, his headache starting to register again now that the adrenaline is starting to wear off, and Mrs Hendricks sticking her head out of the window to give him a scandalised look.

Because his life fucking sucks.

**∞**

Natasha laughs at him. Actual, straight up laughter. He’s used to it from Barton, so he’s not surprised in the least that Clint slid down the couch and is now literally lying on the floor laughing like a goddamn hyena, but it’s incredibly difficult to get more than an amused smirk out of Natasha. Usually he’d feel proud enticing this reaction from her, but Bucky’s not sure he likes her laughter when it’s directed at him.

He attempts to glower her into stopping, but it just makes her laugh harder.

“You are terrible friends,” he grumbles. “I’m firing you and finding new and better friends. People with _compassion_ who _understand my pain_.”

“Ah yes,” Natasha says. “Your suffering is incommensurable. It’s piercing through me like you wish his dick had pierced you again.”

“Oh my God,” Bucky whines, because seriously, his friends are the worst. “You are terrible. Fucking terrible. And stop using those annoying SAT words, they’re still haunting my dreams. Have been since high school, that’s how fucking traumatised I am.”

“Stop being such a drama queen.”

“New friends. I’m gonna find them.”

“Sure thing,” Natasha replies, utterly unconcerned. “Good luck finding people who’ll listen to your ridiculous stories, are willing to bail you out of jail and don’t kick you off the couch even when you eat all their food.”

“I don’t eat all your food,” Bucky protests. “Clint does.”

“I do not!” Clint yelps indignantly. He’s still lying on the floor.

“Clint, last night you fed half your pizza to the dog,” Bucky says.

Natasha clears her throat pointedly, effectively nipping the impending squabble in the bud. There’s a beat of silence, and then Bucky drops his head on the table, whining.

“He was so _pretty_ , Nat,” he laments. “And I didn’t even get his number.”

“Like you would have called him anyway,” she scoffs.

“I might’ve.”

“You never do,” Clint pipes up, pulling himself up at the couch until he’s mostly upright. He’s still mostly hugging the upholstery, though, like actually sitting up on his own requires much more effort than he can muster up, and Bucky takes a kind of vicious satisfaction in seeing that last night wasn’t only rough on him but on his friend, too. “You’re, like, the textbook definition of a love ‘em and leave ‘em kind of guy.”

“I didn’t say I want to marry him, or even date him,” Bucky argues. “But he is the best lay I’ve had in ages, and I would really like to suck his dick.”

“Bucky Barnes considering to go back for seconds,” Natasha muses. “Either you have a fever or that guy is a miracle worker.”

Bucky only doesn’t throw his empty take-away cup at her head because she’d dismember him with it. “Don’t slut shame me. We’ve been over this. I don’t have _time_ for a relationship right now. I’m focusing on getting my master’s degree; everything else comes second.”

“Thanks, dude,” Clint says dryly.

Bucky punches him in the shoulder. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. You guys are way up high on my list of priorities. But romantic relationships are messy and complicated and exhausting, and I cannot deal with that right now.”

“It’s not complicated when it’s the right person,” Natasha says, eyes darting towards Clint. It reminds Bucky that no matter how scary and aloof and closed-off she can seem, she is still a huge marshmallow on the inside with a far bigger romantic streak than she will ever admit out loud. It’s one of the reasons why she and Clint make such a good couple, even though at first glance they might seem like an unlikely pair.

He can admit that seeing the two of them together makes him kind of stupidly happy, makes him feel warm and fuzzy on the inside. And yeah, he wants that kind of relationship, someday. Bucky is not in the habit of idealising a lot of stuff; their relationship is the closest he’ll ever come to acknowledging that there are some things in the world that are basically perfect. Still, he’s not blinded enough by their adoration for each other to believe they have never faced struggles, and he’s not afraid to call Natasha out on it. Not so much with words, but rather by raising an unimpressed eyebrow. Relationships, in his experience, require a lot of work. They require time and effort and energy, none of which he has much to spare at the moment.

He used to enjoy it, he remembers, taking people out on dates, romancing them. It never used to feel like a chore when he was still in high school, or even during the first couple of years at college, back when he was young and fresh-faced and naive enough to think his life was hard even when, in retrospect, it was a walk in the park. These days, he can’t just breeze through his classes and life likes to slam bricks into his face, with things like _student loans_ and _work_ and _real life responsibilities_ written on them to give him a reality check.

Free time is a rare commodity for him these days, and almost all his energy goes towards doing well in class. Whatever else remains he puts into taking care of his family and friends, going to the gym, working part-time and going out enough to fulfil his need for social interaction. Because he does go out, as often as he can. It’s not like he’s a loner; he enjoys being around people. It’s just that he’d rather have no romantic relationship than a half-assed one.

For now, it’s just easier, hooking up with people and then not seeing them again later.

“Sorry, “ Natasha says, “you know I don’t want to lecture you. I just worry about you. I don’t want you to be lonely.”

“How could I be lonely?” Bucky asks, and throws his arms around Clint and Natasha’s shoulders. “I’ve got you two. Now listen to me whine some more about the perfect dick that got away so I can get it out of my system.”

**∞**

Natasha texts him two weeks later.

**_Celebratory drinks @SHIELD tonight?_ **

_Sure_ , he texts back. _What r we celebrating?_

**_The power of friendship? Us being fabulous? Clint going three days without drinking coffee straight from the pot? Pick one._ **

Bucky snorts. _One of those days, is it?_

**_Just be there at seven. Got our usual table booked._ **

Now that is interesting. Natasha usually gets their favourite table reserved only when they are planning on going to the bar at a later time, when it’s sure to be busy. If they’re going as early as seven, there is virtually never a need to reserve the table. Nick Fury, owner of the bar and a goddamn terrifying man, has a soft spot for Natasha a mile wide that has absolutely nothing to do with how she usually wraps guys around her finger. Bucky’s not entirely sure what her relationship to Nick is, and he’s even less sure he’ll ever want to know, but he gets the feeling he is acting as a bit of a surrogate dad for her. So their favourite table is generally kept free on weekends even without them calling ahead, and if it’s not, the second Natasha strolls into the bar, Nick will glower at whoever is sat there until they leave and make room for her, even if other tables are free. It’s awesome. Nick is awesome.

Terrifying, but awesome.

Bucky frowns down at his phone, wondering whether it’s worth the trouble of asking Natasha about it via text. She’ll probably not spill any information, or at least wait until they’re face to face for maximum dramatic effect. She can deny it all she wants, she’s just as big a nerd and a drama queen as he is.

Before he can reply, his phone lights up again with another message.

**_Sam’s coming & bringing a friend._ **

That’s a good enough reason for him to abandon his question. Bucky has only met Sam a few times, so he doesn’t know him very well, but he likes the guy. He’s easygoing and laid-back and genuinely funny, and Bucky has been expecting Natasha to try and draw him closer to the inner circle for a while now. Not a lot of people gain her approval and her trust, but Sam’s apparently two for two. Undoubtedly, the evening will be carefully orchestrated to be perfect and to cement her impression of Sam being worthy. He’s not entirely sure why another friend is invited, but maybe it’s to take the pressure off. After all, meeting your friend’s other friends can be scary.

And look at him, over-analysing a social situation. Natasha’s paranoia of people is obviously rubbing off on him.

He rolls his eyes at himself, texts back a thumbs up and goes to take a shower.

He gets to SHIELD only ten minutes late after getting caught up reading an article on advanced robotics and how they might be used to improve prostheses. He doesn’t even care that he’ll most likely find himself on the receiving end of a few death glares, because that stuff is _awesome as fuck_ and definitely worth the risk of pissing Natasha off.

To his surprise, Natasha is still absent from their usual booth. He doesn’t get suspicious until he gets there to find someone already occupying the table, typing furiously on his phone. His head snaps up at Bucky plopping down onto the bench. They both freeze for a split second, and then,

“Oh no,” says Steve. “ _No_.”

“What,” Bucky asks flatly.

“Look,” Steve says, visibly hesitating for a second, and then clearly deciding to barrel on, “in case I didn’t make myself clear, I had a good time the other night, but I’m not interested in reliving the experience. So leave. Please.” He tags the last part on with a slight grimace, as if it physically pains him to exert even the smallest amount of politeness.

Bucky narrows his eyes at him. “Look, pal, I totally would, but I can’t. You’re the one who’ll have to skedaddle.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I was here first.”

“This is _my_ booth,” Bucky insists petulantly.

“No, it’s not. I have a reservation.”

“Like hell you do. My friend - ah, shit,” Bucky curses as the penny drops. Steve raises an eyebrow, both curious and slightly smug, as though he thinks he’s won their little battle. “You’re Sam’s friend.”

The complacent look slips off Steve’s face. “You’re one of Nat’s friends,” he realises.

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms, and fucking hell, she did this on purpose. He should’ve realised earlier. Barring a life threatening injury, Natasha is never late.  He whips out his phone to send her an angry text, just a _WTF NAT_ with a string of exclamation marks and skulls following after, fully aware that it’s the nickname, not the emojis, that will convey how much he thinks she fucked up. He reserves it for special occasions, and for good reason. “You know her?”

Going by the pinched expression on Steve’s face as he stares down at his phone, he’s sending a similar message to Sam. “Through Sam.”

“Hm,” Bucky says. “Never call her Nat to her face. She thinks it’s tacky and she’ll punch you. If you’re lucky.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Oh, I’m not dumb enough for that,” Bucky says and graciously ignores that Steve mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like _could’ve fooled me._ Why is he even giving the bastard advice? He should’ve just let him get punched. Unfortunately, Bucky is too good a person to let anyone who isn’t a total asshole run into the line of fire without a proper warning. “I’ve seen it happen plenty of times, though. So, you know, don’t. Unless that’s your thing, in which case, good for you, but Natasha’s taken.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Natasha’s answer comes thirty seconds later. **_Sorry, got delayed, will be there in 30._ **

“Subtle, Natasha,” Bucky comments dryly.

Steve makes an inquisitive noise so Bucky turns the screen to him.

Steve snorts. “Sam gave me the same excuse. You’d think they’d be less obvious.”

“They don’t need to, to be honest, after taking away our chance to just up and walk away.”

Steve’s jaw tightens as he considers that. “You think they’ll actually show?”

“I don't know Sam well enough to know what he's gonna do but if Natasha gets her way? They’ll definitely peer through the window to check on us, if only to be able to yell at me in case I ditch you.”

Steve hums thoughtfully. He’s mostly managed to smooth out the angry lines in his face, but he’s still frowning. “That’s actually quite brilliant. I’d give them credit where credit is due, if I wasn’t so annoyed.”

“Natasha is devious,” Bucky agrees, shooting her a quick _U suck_ text before stuffing his phone back in his pocket. “So, what now? We have to stay here at least half an hour to give them a chance to actually show. Cause I don't know about you, but I don't feel like getting yelled at today. Does Sam yell? He seems more like the guy who'd give you the ‘I'm disappointed in you’ look, but that must be uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of, too.”

“He does, and it is.”

“Okay, so, plan?”

“We could just sit in awkward silence,” Steve deadpans.

“I could blow you in the bathroom,” Bucky suggests. He’s not one to lie to himself, or deny himself simple pleasures, after all. He would like to get his mouth on Steve’s dick sometime, even if the guy is being an irritable ass. They didn’t get around to blow jobs when they hooked up, which, frankly, is a tragedy. If memory serves - and it does, because Bucky isn’t one to forget these things - Steve has a very pretty dick. And a fantastic ass, no matter how irritable. Bucky is willing to forgive a lot for such astounding assets.

“No, thanks,” Steve says coolly. “I don’t feel like getting arrested for public indecency today.”

Which is a shame, really, but Bucky’s not about to point out that Steve is really not doing the world a favour by depriving it of displaying his body. “Harsh,” he says. “Just for the record, I don’t usually get people into trouble.”

“Just yourself, then?”

“Depends on your definition of trouble,” Bucky says, as if he doesn’t mostly define it by pulling three all-nighters in a row and forgetting to eat and then getting yelled at for that by the women in his life, or maybe passing out on a friend’s front lawn after partying too much. A real dark horse, that’s him.

Really, it’s _Clint_ that usually gets him into trouble. Not himself.

Steve has apparently decided he’s not interested in pursuing this thread of conversation any further. They order drinks when a waiter drops by, and then Steve spends the next five minutes until their orders arrive in perfect, steely silence. It takes Bucky about two of these minutes to start getting uncomfortable and bored and twitchy, jiggling his legs and tapping his fingers on the table. That earns him another disapproving look from Steve before he goes back to summarily ignoring him, and God, how is he such a grumpy old man? It’s like he’s the complete opposite of what Bucky pegged him for, personality wise, when they first met in that bar. Either Steve is one of those people who turns into a completely different person when drunk or Bucky seriously has to re-evaluate his good judgement when intoxicated.

Another five minutes pass like this: the two of them sitting in tense silence, Steve looking anywhere but him and, from his stormy expression whenever Bucky so much as twitches a finger, contemplating the most efficient ways he could dispose of Bucky’s body if he didn’t care so much about not breaking the law. Bucky, meanwhile, alternates between plotting bloody revenge for Natasha, draining his beer too quickly just to have something to do, and trying not to get swept up in too graphic daydreams involving Steve’s frankly ridiculously wide shoulders.

Annoyance sizzles in his chest. For one, because he can’t stop himself from imagining his legs wrapped around those aforementioned shoulders, but also because he wishes Natasha would just stop poking her nose into his love life. He knows she does it because she cares, and he appreciates that she doesn’t want him to end up alone, really, he loves her for it, but he also just wants her to get off his back about it. Which is unlikely to happen, unless...

“We should date,” Bucky blurts out, inspiration suddenly striking.

That gets him Steve’s attention, at least. “Excuse me?” he asks, going from taken aback to angry in about a nanosecond.

“No no no no, hear me out,” Bucky says, holding up his hand in hopes it’ll stop Steve from exploding in his face. “You wanna get back at them?”

For a second, Steve seems thrown. “Sure,” he says eventually, hesitant and cautious, more of a question than an answer. “I fail to see how these things are connected, though.”

“Well, we can just wait here and when - if - they show up, tell them we didn’t get along so well after all. They’ll possibly be disappointed, but there’ll be no real consequences for them, right? They’ll still think they were super slick in trying to set us up, and even though it didn’t work out, they might still count it as a win. You with me so far?”

“Yeah.”

“So, imagine the following. We date, fall madly in love, then have the most horrendous breakup in history and make them deal with that. They’ll feel terrible because they pushed us into this and they’ll blame themselves, and we get to eat free ice cream and see their faces when we eventually tell them we pulled one over them,” Bucky finishes with a smug grin.

“That’s a terrible plan,” Steve says, but he doesn’t sound super averse.

“It’s a _great_ plan,” Bucky insists. “Free ice cream, Steve! Revenge!”

Steve snorts. “I like how the free ice cream is the priority for you.”

“I’m a poor college student, and the wages for student staff at the library will only get you so far. I’ll take free food however I can get it.” Bucky shrugs. “So, what do you say?”

“I think it’s overdoing it,” Steve says. “It seems a bit...cruel, don’t you think? And I don’t know if I’m comfortable lying to my friends.”

“Oh God, you’re one of those totally honest, straight-laced people who can’t lie, aren’t you?”

“I’m not straight-laced,” Steve replies stiffly, like the mere suggestion offends him. “And I can lie. I just prefer not to unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“That’s _adorable_ ,” Bucky says, crowing inwardly because he totally just found Steve’s weak spot. He can definitely goad him into this, if he’s that miffed at the mere implication he’s incapable of doing something. He’ll do it just to prove Bucky wrong. This is beautiful. “But I really think you’re just saying that because you fear you can’t do it.”

“I once had sex with two people on an airplane,” Steve says, apropos nothing, completely straight-faced. "At the same time."

Bucky blinks.

Steve’s expression doesn’t change, except for the challenging glint in his eyes.

Okay then.

“Nice try,” he concedes. “The other night you had a complete meltdown about having sex in public, remember? But A for effort and all that. I almost believed you. But I’m a stranger - I know virtually nothing about you. It’s super easy to lie to me, because I have no frame of reference. And yet,” he points out, ”I called your bluff. I would've even if I hadn't known about your aversion towards public indecency. You should never play poker.”

“Fine,” Steve bites out. “Fine, let’s do it.”

“Yes!” Bucky exclaims, barely avoiding punching his fist in the air. “This is gonna be awesome!”

“Just so we’re clear, we _are_ talking about pretending to date, not actually date, right?”

“ _Duh_ ,” Bucky answers. “You think I have time for a relationship right now? Or want one? The answer is no. If I did, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“I hate to break it to you, but a fake relationship might still be time consuming. At least if we want to make it look real enough that they’ll buy it,” Steve says matter-of-factly.

“Eh. Our ‘dates’ can mostly be me studying at your place and vice versa. We’ll just have to get out every once in a while, enough to make it believable. It won’t take much. If we stay in a lot they’ll probably just assume we’re having a lot of sex.”

“Alright, James.” Steve draws in a deep breath. “How are we doing this?”

Bucky grins and extends his hand, like proper introductions and sealed agreements demand. “Well, first of all, you should call me Bucky.”

**∞**

They're sticking their heads together over the table, tossing ideas around and hashing out the details of their agreement in hushed whispers when a familiar voice says, "Well, aren't you two looking cosy."

Bucky jerks back. He had been so immersed in their planning that he forgot to keep an eye out for Natasha and Sam, despite having a plain view of the entrance. Dammit. No time to make themselves look like they had been properly conversing like normal people, then. Steve shoots him a glare, but the effect is mostly dampened by the expression of guilt creeping over his face. He's blushing a little, like Natasha caught them with their trousers down. Luckily, she can't have been standing there long enough to eavesdrop; she looks down on them in open amusement and fondness, not like she suspects anything.

"Nice of you to show up," Bucky remarks wryly.

"Of course," Natasha replies smoothly, sliding into the booth next to Bucky as Sam, grinning widely, takes a seat next to Steve. "Sorry it took so long. I'm glad you guys waited."

Bucky glances at his watch and balks. It's close to nine; almost two hours have passed and he didn't even _notice_.

Natasha clearly catches his surprise and smiles even more widely. "But of course, time flies when you're enjoying yourself, and the two of you seem to have kept yourself appropriately entertained. What had you looking so excited?" she asks, turning to Steve.

He can _see_ Steve starting to low-key panic. Jesus Christ. "A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell," he says, throwing in a cocky grin for good measure to keep Natasha's attention on him.

The look she gives him shouts _are you serious right now_. Bucky shrugs and lifts his hands defensively. "What? You were the one who practically begged me to never divulge any detailed information about my sex life ever again, unless you'd consumed at least half a bottle of vodka beforehand."

Sam whoops. "Oh, we're at that stage already? Rogers, you dark horse!"

Natasha cackles.

Steve, flushing violently red all the way down to his obscenely low neckline - and Bucky knows that blush trails a lot further down, has traced it with his tongue before and has to stomp hard on the urge to do it again - drops his face in his hands and whines. "I hate all of you," he complains.

"Seconded," Bucky says. "Well, just the two of you, really," he adds, pointing at Natasha and Sam.

"Uh huh," Natasha says. "Pretend to be annoyed all you want, you know you'll thank me later."

"You know what?" Bucky says, taking a sip of his beer and studying the slope of Steve's broad shoulders and the shock of blond hair, "I think I just might."

**∞**

Their plan is off to a _great_ start.

That is to say, between all their frantic planning and then their friends showing up and his efforts to make gooey eyes at Steve while their friends are watching, he forgets to ask for Steve’s number.

Bucky only very barely refrains from introducing his head to the nearest hard surface to express his frustration.

The absolutely smug grin on Natasha’s face when he comes to beg it off her is kind of promising, though, although he has to suffer through quite a bit of teasing. “How did you not get his number, Barnes?” Natasha asks, shaking her head. “You usually have more game than this.”

“Yeah, don’t remind me,” Bucky mutters darkly.

“It’s not that he didn’t want to give it to you, right?” She frowns at him even as she thumbs through her contact list.

“No,” Bucky says emphatically. “I just forgot to ask.”

Natasha snorts.

“What?” he asks. “I was distracted!”

“By his fine piece of ass or his socialist ideas?”

“Both, actually.”

“Rogers actually wooing someone by being a goody two shoes,” Natasha muses. “Would you look at that.”

“Don’t act so surprised,” Bucky replies grumpily. “You knew this would happen. You planned for this.”

“I didn’t know for sure,” Natasha corrects. “I just --”

“Hoped?”

“Made an educated guess. You know I don’t take shots in the dark.”

“Yes, yes, you are wise and worthy of worship, I know. Now will you give me his number or not?”

“Done,” she says the exact moment his phone chirps. Bucky busies himself saving the number in his contacts, only looking up when she pokes his shoulder. The expression on her face is strangely serious. “This could be good for you. Both of you,” she says. “Don’t fuck it up, James.”

Bucky sucks in a deep breath. “I’ll try,” he says, making his voice as earnest as possible. The small smile she gives him in return tells him she buys it. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the heavy feeling of guilt settling low in his gut.

He texts Steve later in the safety of his own apartment. A bit of a guilty conscience doesn’t mean much in the grand scheme of things, he reasons. He hasn’t chickened out of any challenge in his life, and he’s not about to start now. Besides, she still deserves it.

**_We should probably meet soon, provided that u still wanna go through with this._ **

**_Don’t u dare back out on me Rogers!_ **

**_This is Bucky btw_ **

He doesn’t have to wait long for a reply. _Oh no, I never would’ve guessed,_ it reads. Bucky briefly, absurdly wonders whether Steve’s messages will always be dripping sarcasm, and whether prolonged exposure to his acerbic wit might cause his phone to spontaneously combust. It’s certainly causing Bucky’s brain to melt.

_And I don’t break my word._

Bucky sends back a thumbs up. **_Glad to hear it. Coffee tomorrow if ur free?_ **

The question is a bit redundant, since he already knows Steve is free - they had decided on meeting up on Monday for a pretend coffee date that was actually just supposed to allow them to study. Aside from fixing the place, everything is already set up, unless something came up to prevent Steve from showing. Really, it’s just a formality in case any of their friends ask to see the progression of their ‘relationship’, which is why they had also agreed not to mention their agreement in any written context that their friends might stumble upon.

Bucky is quite proud of them for that one. They’re, like, the ninjas of fake dating.

_Class lets out at 4, meet you at Bifrost after?_

Bucky bites his lip. _Bifrost_ is a great coffee shop, he’s not going to lie - a bit hipster, maybe, but cheap and relatively well hidden so it’s not constantly overrun by students, definitely a good place to study - but it’s also a bit of a gamble. The likelihood of one of their friends or acquaintances showing up and seeing them is quite high, because it’s a coffee shop both his and Steve’s friends like to frequent. Not to mention that Thor works there; he’s the son of the owner, knows both Steve and Bucky and definitely will dish out all the details to their friends, so if they’re spotted doing anything other but obvious flirting and trying to get to know each other, as people would on their first date, their gig will be up.

On the other hand, if they manage to play their parts well, people seeing them and spreading the word might actually help support the whirlwind romance narrative they are trying to go for.

What the hell, Bucky decides, why not? It’s worth a try.

 **_It’s a date_ ** , he replies and locks his phone, fully expecting not to hear from Steve again until they actually meet face to face again. Against his expectation, his phone chirps again only a minute later.

_Sam is making happy cooing noises at me. It’s beyond disturbing._

Bucky doesn’t quite know what to do with that text. Is Steve just trying to tell him that so far they are succeeding in fooling their friends? Does he feel guilty? **_I thought Natasha was gonna cry tbh_ **  he offers.

_Calling bullshit._

**_Her version of crying, that is. The Russian way. I think it involves tears made out of crystallised vodka and no outward display of emotion whatsoever._ **

_I’ll take your word for it,_ Steve texts back, and that’s the last thing they say to each other before their date.

**∞**

“Thor’s not on shift today, I double checked just to be sure,” is the first thing Steve says to him when they meet up in the coffee shop on Monday. He’s also taken full precautions to hinder anyone from witnessing their not-date and secured them a booth in the far back of the shop well outside the sightlines of anyone entering the place, and wedged behind a small partition so that even people going to the bathroom wouldn’t immediately see them. It’s the kind of expert strategic thinking that Bucky can’t help but admire.

The second thing Steve says to him is: “You didn’t bring any books.”

“Hello to you too,” Bucky scoffs and simply pulls out his wallet. “Coffee?”

Steve’s eyes narrow. “I thought you said this wasn’t a date.”

“I didn’t say I’d _pay_ for it,” Bucky says, holding out his hand expectantly. “I ain’t made out of money. But if you give me your order and some money, I’ll go get it for you, because I’m a gentleman.”

Steve’s still eyeing him suspiciously but digs into his pockets to hand him a crumpled five dollar note. “Black,” he says curtly.

“Sure.” Bucky rolls his eyes but refrains from making a quip about only bitter people enjoying bitter things. He also graciously ignores the sceptical eyebrow Steve raises at him when he strolls back and sets down Steve’s coffee along with his own Caramel Latte Frappuccino, covered in whipped cream and sprinkles, because a) he’s a grown-up, responsible human being and b) he doesn’t need to prove his masculinity by denying himself the smaller pleasures in life. “I think you’re supposed to say thank you,” he prompts.

“Thank you,” Steve says pointedly and takes a sip of his coffee before turning his attention back to the pile of papers he got out while Bucky was placing their order.

“So, what is it you study?” Bucky asks conversationally, settling deeper into his chair and stretching out his legs in front of him.

Steve groans. “I knew it.”

“What?”

“This whole charade was actually just a ploy to get me to go on a date with you.”

“What the fuck,” says Bucky.

“Come on, this plan is way too ridiculous to be real.”

“First of all,” Bucky says, sitting up, glaring at Steve, “no fucking way in hell. You really think I’m that desperate? Screw you, and also, I’m the exact opposite of desperate. I don’t want to date, I want to _not_ date, that’s the entire point. And secondly, _you agreed to this_ , you jerk.”

“Not one of my finer moments,” Steve admits through gritted teeth.

“Well, why did you, if you hate me and this idea so much?” Bucky challenges heatedly.

“You know why,” Steve replies sourly, and Bucky fills in the blank: _Because you rile me up and I am incapable of backing down from a challenge._ “And I don’t hate you. I’d just rather stay away from troublemakers.”

“You got arrested _three times_ in the last two years,” Bucky retorts incredulously, “and you call _me_ the troublemaker?”

Steve jerks back, paling rapidly. “How - how do you know that?” he sputters.

“I hacked into your police records,” Bucky says easily, shrugging. He’s enjoying the panic and outrage on Steve’s face for a moment, then drops the act with a snort before Steve can blow up in his face. “Natasha told me, you walnut.”

“Natasha told you?”

“Well, what she said was more along the lines of ‘If he’s trying to drag you to the demo tonight don’t tag along, because he’ll be his usual self and you’ll try to impress him and you’ll both end up in jail and I won’t bail your idiotic asses out’. Of course, she’s operating under the assumption that I’d want to impress you, because she thinks this is an actual date. Which it isn’t, just to be clear. I’d rather be studying, too, but I was actually committed to our plan, and I knew it wouldn’t work if I came back from our date and knew absolutely nothing about you. That’s why I asked what you study.”

“You seem to know plenty about me already,” Steve comments darkly.

“Actually, I don’t know jack aside from the few things Natasha has told me and some stuff that should probably stay within the confines of a bedroom.” He throws a perfunctory wink at Steve here, just to see him glower, then drops the smirk and shrugs. “I figured using this meeting would be the easiest way to get the basic stuff out of the way, but I guess we could draw up some bullet points to memorise. Or, you know, you could just leave, if you’re so hell-bent on believing I’ll somehow destroy your life. I ain’t keeping you. Believe it or not, there are much better things I could be doing with my time, too. Your company isn’t exactly what I’ve been longing for.”

“Oh really? Because I seem to recall you longing for something.”

Bucky shrugs again and takes another sip of his coffee. At this point, it’s all gone downhill so fast he might as well give up. He kind of wants to, because Jesus Christ, Steve Rogers is a piece of goddamn work that he is starting to believe is not worth the effort. “You‘re a good lay, I won’t deny that, but your personality is severely lacking in every department that’s even remotely connected to pleasantness, so no, I’m not actually all that eager to talk to you either. Right now I’m genuinely thinking that enduring my friends’ meddling might be easier than putting up with you, to be honest.”

Steve sits back, visibly stunned.

Bucky takes another sip, damning the fact that it’s in a glass, not a to-go cup. He could’ve made an awesome dramatic exit. Whatever, he can ignore the awkwardness for the deliciousness that is his frappuccino.

“Graphic design.”

He’s so focused on aggressively enjoying his drink and tamping down on the anger that’s starting to bubble up more and more on the inside - _who the hell does Steve Rogers think he is_ \- that he almost misses it when Steve breaks the silence, voice quiet and subdued.

“Huh?” Bucky blinks.

“Graphic design,” Steve repeats, and Bucky realises belatedly that Steve is trying to offer an olive branch. “That’s what I - Christ, I’m -” He rubs a hand over his face. “I was an ass. Because - hell, I don’t even know why.”

“Are you apologising?”

“Yes, obviously,” Steve snaps, then freezes, colour rushing to his cheeks. He looks vaguely ashamed with himself. Bucky resists the urge to smile.

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘sorry’,” Bucky supplies helpfully, trying to keep the cheerfulness out of his voice lest he come off as mocking.

Steve tenses for a brief moment, and Bucky has a split second to panic that he’s stepped into a minefield again. Then his shoulders sag abruptly, all the fight going out of him. It makes him look like a giant, dejected puppy. Bucky probably shouldn’t find it as adorable as he does. “I’m sorry,” says Steve, steady and earnest. “Just - I’m sorry.”

Bucky waves it off with a flick of his wrist, hoping it comes off as nonchalant, although he feels anything but, particularly when Steve continues, unprompted.

“That happens sometimes,” Steve confesses haltingly. “It _will_ happen sometimes. I just get angry, occasionally, at myself, at the world, at - everything, I guess. It’ll probably not really be you. Well,” he amends, shooting Bucky a wry look, “it might be you, actually. So. Anyway. I get angry about stupid shit and let it out on other people. That’s something you should know.”

“Should I?” Bucky asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “That is, if you’re still….” He trails off.

 _Huh_ , Bucky thinks. _Would you look at that._

He can work with this.

“I’m not the one who had doubts,” Bucky reminds him. “So I’m still in if you are. But I’m serious: if you’re not comfortable with this, then you can walk away now. No hard feelings. But if you’re in? You gotta be in all the way.”

Steve nods. “I know,” he says, and doesn’t move out of his seat. He manages something that could technically count as a smile if Bucky’s being generous, the corner of his lip quirking up with a certain self-mockery. “I’d ask to start over, but we’ve already tried that once before. I don’t think normal people get three tries at meeting someone.”

“Not sure we qualify as normal.” Bucky shrugs. “But who the fuck cares about normal anyway?”

“I’d drink to that, except I don’t think it counts when it’s only coffee.”

“I’m sensing an ongoing theme in our relationship: shit that’s not quite as it’s supposed to be.”

“Hopefully not too much of it, or the going will get rough. From what I know, Natasha is an excellent bullshit detector. Too many pieces not fitting right, and she’ll have our number.”

“Eh.” Bucky shrugs. “If I’ve learnt anything during my studies, it’s that there’s basically nothing that liberal application of duct tape can’t fix.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, what exactly is the duct tape in this scenario?”

Bucky pauses. “Pretending to be all gooey and happy? I don’t know. This metaphor got away from me.”

“Buddy, I don’t think you ever really got this metaphor in the first place,” Steve says, but it’s light-hearted, almost, and teasing, more like the Steve Bucky remembers from the night they first met.

“Rude,” Bucky says, “but also fair.”

“I take it you’re not a Literature major after all, then?”

That startles a laugh out of Bucky. “You thought I was a Literature major? What gave you that idea?”

“I don’t know, you certainly talked enough bullshit, but you weren’t quite pretentious or hipster enough to be a philosopher, and not angry enough to be a sociologist.”

Bucky winces in sympathy. “Met a lot of hipster lit or philosophy majors, then?”

“Too goddamn many,” Steve confirms.

“I’m going to be the bigger man here and not point out the irony of you disapproving of angry sociologists - “

“You just did,” Steve shoots back, “and I never said I disapproved of them.”

“- and as much as it pains me, I’ll have to admit that you actually weren’t that far off the mark. When I was an undergrad, I did minor in Russian Literature.”

Steve stares at him for a beat. “I want to say that explains so much about you, but mostly I want to ask: _why_?”

Bucky shrugs again. “Dunno. Just liked it, I guess. I’m doing a masters in Mechanical Engineering now, though. ‘s what I majored in, too.”

“Interesting combination,” Steve remarks, no judgement in his voice. It feels like a gentle prompt, an invitation to tell him more, but Bucky’s not really up to explaining that particular chapter of his life in depth, so he just leans back in his chair, kicks up his feet on the low coffee table between them and ignores Steve’s disapproving look.

“What can I say, Rogers, I’m a complicated man. I have layers. Like an onion.”

“Do you also smell and make people cry?” Steve retorts, unimpressed, and Bucky can’t help it, he cackles, and it’s like there’s a crack in the dam, the conversation suddenly flowing much more easily.

They spend another hour covering the basic details of their lives - family (only his mother for Steve, and too goddamn many siblings and other noisy family members for Bucky), hobbies (turns out looks can be deceiving and despite having the stature of an NFL running back, Steve has never willingly touched a football in his life), other interests - and it’s...it’s _easy,_ is what it is, bickering back and forth, conversation flowing readily from one topic to the next. When Bucky finally looks at his phone and realises he has to excuse himself to go home and actually get some studying done, he finds himself almost unwilling to go.

He was enjoying himself, he realises.

The thought leaves him spinning a little, like an off-kilter dreidel, before he gets a hold of himself. _This is a good thing_ , he reminds himself. The next few months would’ve been torture if they had gone into this hating each other. Actually liking the guy you’ll be forced to spend a lot of time with should make things so much easier. Right?

Right.

**∞**

Natasha calls him that evening. She doesn’t bother to beat around the bush. “How was the date?”

Bucky clears his throat. “Good. It was good.”

“Only good?”

He sighs. “No. It was great. He’s great.” He can _hear_ her smile. It’s creepy. “Shut up,” he says.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” he grumbles, because if he came across as too eager, he’d give himself away. “Seriously, Natasha, it was just one date. Just coffee. Don’t get too excited.”

“But you’re doing it again soon?”

He sighs again. “But we’re doing it again soon,” he confirms. “ _Stop_ _smiling!”_

“You can’t prove anything,” she says, and hangs up on him.

Bucky stares at his phone and tries not to feel guilty already.

**∞**

Steve comes over on Thursday, the only day except Friday that neither of them have afternoon classes, so Bucky cuts his regular gym session short to be there to let Steve in. Predictably, his quip about how Steve knew where he lived and could just let himself in through the window had gotten a less than stellar reception. Apparently that whole fiasco is still very much a sore point for Steve, and Bucky feels stupid for bringing it up again when it seemed like they were almost capable of communicating like normal people again after everything that happened.

As it is, he’s not sure whether it’s because of his stupid joke that the air between them feels charged and stifling again when Steve shows up on his doorstep, or whether it’s just the general awkwardness of two people who don’t know each other very well and don’t have a vested interest in actually getting to know each other facing the uncomfortable situation of being stuck together in a room for a few hours. Either way, Steve shuffles in with a quiet greeting, messenger bag over his shoulder, and takes a quick look around without commenting on the state of Bucky’s apartment - which, as far as Bucky knows, could mean either approval or disapproval. Bucky actually loves his place; it’s not huge, just a tiny bedroom with an equally tiny closet and en-suite, and a combined kitchen and living room that is slightly roomier and that he has only mostly managed to separate into two different sections thanks to a strategic placement of a giant bookshelf (thank you, Ikea!), but at least it has large windows letting in the light. It’s also not as cluttered as it was half an hour ago, because his mother instilled some rules into him he’ll always follow, and one of them is that when you have guests coming over, you gotta straighten up the place and have some food and drinks to offer them, which to be honest is the only reason his apartment ever looks vaguely presentable.

“Um,” Steve says, gesturing at the tiny kitchen table and then at the couch. “Where do you...”

“Knock yourself out,” Bucky says. “I mostly have readings to do so I don’t need the table right now.”

“I’m good on the couch,” Steve replies, “if that’s okay. I like to make myself comfortable when I’m sketching.”

“Works for me,” Bucky agrees and ambles into his bedroom to retrieve his books. He has a desk crammed into a corner as well that offers a little more workspace than the table in the other room, so he could theoretically work here, but it seems rude to abandon Steve on the couch. Not to mention, they’re supposed to spend some time together to be able to pull off looking like a real couple, which is not going to happen if they avoid each other. So Bucky sighs, picks up his books and goes back to the living room, plunks his books on the table carelessly and throws his feet up on the other chair to get more comfortable. Steve doesn’t react at all, already immersed in his work, brows furrowed as his pencil scratches over fine paper.

They’ve been working quietly next to each other for a couple of hours when Bucky decides he needs a break. He wanders into the kitchen, pokes his head into the fridge only to find it woefully lacking anything he feels like eating, so he opts for making coffee instead. He reorganises his pathetically understocked spice rack twice while waiting for the coffee to finish - once by colour, then alphabetically -  and wipes down the counter until his machine beeps cheerfully. He pours his coffee in his favourite rainbow cat mug and dumps enough sugar and milk in to make the liquid only vaguely resemble coffee. After a moment of consideration, he grabs a second mug from the cabinet, tucks some chocolate cookies under his elbow and ambles back into the living room, setting Steve’s mug on the coffee table before plopping down on the couch next to him with a sigh.

Steve looks up briefly, flicks his eyes to the coffee, mumbles a quiet _thanks_ and goes back to his sketching.

Bucky lets out another sigh. If Steve’s not going to entertain him, he’ll have to make do with his best companion for lonely times. He kicks his feet up on the table and twists down to grab the magazine from where it had nearly slid under the couch. He informs himself about this year’s _Sexy Summer Hair Ideas_ \- undercuts, mostly - , giggles about the _9 Best Things to Say to a Guy You Just Met_  - and sure, he’ll be dropping comments about how to avoid tan lines in the future, that seems like totally sane advice - and nearly chokes on his cookie when faced with the suggestion of introducing intimate Indian Burns to his sex life because what the actual fuck.

The best part comes near the end, though. “What kind of dress will you wear at your wedding?” he reads out loud.

A beat of silence. Then: “What.”

Bucky repeats the questions, and turns to Steve, who is looking at him with a mixture of annoyance and confusion. Bucky waggles the magazine towards him. Steve’s eyebrows shoot up nearly to his hairline. “You read Cosmo? Seriously?”

“Sure.” Bucky shrugs. “Why not? Is that too unmanly for you?”

“No. It’s just a terrible fucking magazine.” Steve leans forward and takes the first sip of his coffee, grimacing as he swallows. “Shit, that’s strong.”

“That’s why I don’t drink mine black. Perfect energy kick, made drinkable by diluting it with milk and sugar. And I’m not disagreeing with you, it’s terrible.”

“Then why are you spending money on it?”

“I’m not,” Bucky says. “The previous tenant had a subscription and just never changed the address. I tried to find out where they live now, but no dice, so I’m still enjoying a free Cosmo every month. Not complaining about it. It’s so bad it’s almost good again. So,” he drawls, “let’s find out what kind of bride you’d be. Traditional or sexy?”

“I’m working,” Steve points out tersely. “And I wouldn’t be wearing a dress.”

“God, you have zero concept of a fun time, Rogers.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “I made you coffee. Indulge me for five minutes.”

Steve purses his lips in a way that suggests he’d much rather do anything else, but he puts down his sketchpad. “Fine.”

“Yes!” Bucky crows, grinning widely. “Okay, question one: Where are you getting married? City hall would be just fine; A castle, of course!; Someplace special for both of us; Outside, surrounded by flowers and trees; A cool party venue, or lastly, a church or cathedral?”

“Church,” Steve answers immediately.

Bucky blinks. “Really?”

“I was raised Catholic,” Steve says. “So yeah, I’d want to marry in a church.”

“Huh,” Bucky says, storing that information with all the other things he’s learnt about Steve. “Yeah, okay, I can kind of see the altar boy.” He steals Steve’s pencil, ignoring his protesting noises, and circles the answer. “How many guests are you having?” he asks next and reads out the possible answers.

“Just friends and family.”

“Good choice,” Bucky comments, circling it. “What’s the cake situation?”

“I’ve literally never thought about that,” Steve says wryly after being presented with the answers. “I don’t know. There’s gonna be a cake, I guess. And who even goes for a cake with so many tiers it’s almost as tall as a person?”

“Rich assholes, I’d guess. Your answer?”

“None of these.”

“Well, you gotta pick one. Them’s the rules.”

Steve huffs. “The raspberry one?”

It’s actually hilarious, making Steve take the quiz. He abandons his pained expression in favour of a five minute rant about how weddings should be about people and their friends and family celebrating love instead of being corrupted by capitalism when Bucky asks about the weddings gifts he’d be expecting; Bucky just marks him down as ‘I’m not even registered anywhere’ since he never actually gets a straight answer and a minute later chokes on his laughter when Steve informs him in a deadpan voice that his wedding lingerie would definitely involve a garter belt. He’s not surprised when Steve tells him he has his grandparents’ wedding rings, just imagines a quiet honeymoon and doesn’t particularly care for any bachelor parties involving strippers.

“What’s your fiancé’s best quality?” he asks finally. “Hey, are we assuming I’m the fiancé in this scenario, because then you’d definitely have to pick ‘he’s hot as fuck’. I’d maybe settle for ‘he’s freaking hilarious’ but -”

Steve snorts, shifts a little to read the options himself. “Yeah, no, definitely not. That one,” he says, pointing.

“‘He’s my best friend. Like, actually,’” Bucky reads.

“Of course,” Steve says, sounding defensive. “You’re vowing to be with this person for the rest of your life. Who would that be if not your best friend? All those stupid jokes men make about being shackled down, and whining about having to go home to their wives. Why did you marry her if you don’t like hanging out with her?”

“Hey, slow your roll, I ain’t saying you’re wrong. But man, you know this is just a stupid quiz, right? I didn’t think you’d get that into it.” He counts the points and turns the page to check the results. “But since you’re so eager to find out: Your bridal style is really low-key. You're not really into this whole wedding "thing." You've been living together for years as it is, so you're mostly just doing this for the tax benefits. Your favorite thing about your dress is that you can and will wear it again.”

Steve makes a derisive noise. “Well, that’s half accurate and half bullshit.”

“No big, fancy wedding, but meaningful instead of in it for the tax benefits?” Bucky guesses.

“Yeah. What about you?” Steve asks, surprising him.

Bucky quickly takes the test for himself. “Well, looks like we are not meant to be,” he says. “I’m the sexy bride: You knew you'd picked the right dress when you walked down the aisle and his mouth fell open. Ain't no shame in looking hot on your big day. Hot AF!”

Steve snorts. “Why am I not surprised?”

Bucky blinks, looks down at himself. “I’m literally in ratty sweatpants right now.”

“You wouldn’t be if you had someone to impress.”

“Don’t think I’d necessarily have to impress the guy who’s already agreed to marry me.”

“No, but you’d want to look nice.”

“Well, excuse me for thinking that making an effort is a good thing, Mr ‘I’m so ecologically and economically conscious I will pick a dress I can wear in other social situations’.”

“I didn’t say -” Steve starts and then breaks off, laughing. “I can’t believe we are arguing about this. Why are we arguing about this?”

Bucky stares at him for a moment, frowning, strangely caught up in the knowledge that this is the first time he’s heard Steve genuinely laugh since their hook-up. Every other time since, Steve has been either distant and prickly, or all business; the most Bucky’s managed to coax out of him at the café was a self-deprecating half-smile or an amused snort, nothing like the quiet but deep laughter Steve is letting out now. He’d forgotten how it transforms his face, makes his eyes crinkle and sparkle with amusement, and Bucky thinks briefly that while Steve is always objectively beautiful, smiling just makes him radiant. Maybe even more so because his smiles seem to be hard to come by.

He shakes himself out of that train of thought, because Steve is clearly expecting an answer, and can probably smell Bucky thinking about him weirdly. “I have absolutely no idea, pal,” he says. “But I figure it’s going to happen a lot.”

“Arguing about wedding dresses?” Steve asks sweetly.

“Don’t play dumb, Rogers, it’s not a good look on you.” Bucky pretends to swat him over the head with the magazine. “You know I meant arguing in general. You have a lot of opinions. I ain’t saying that’s a bad thing,” he hastens to add before Steve can get defensive. “I actually respect that about you. I’m just saying you strike me as the type who sometimes enjoys arguing simply for the sake of arguing, and since I’m the same, I might end up playing devil’s advocate from time to time. And even if I don’t, I figure we have more than enough things we disagree on.”

Steve is quiet for a moment. “Well,” he says eventually, “let’s hope we have enough things we agree on to make all of this convincing.”

Bucky waves off his concern. “We’ll be fine,” he says, but privately, as Steve turns back to his work, he agrees.

**∞**

“Friday is movie night with Sam,” Steve says, apropos of nothing.

Bucky blinks at him slowly. “...okay?”  Steve isn’t really in the habit of volunteering information that's not pertaining to their conversation. They also haven't made plans to meet up that night yet, so it's not like he's cancelling on Bucky,  so he's a little confused why Steve would tell him. They are playing the _falling hard and fast_ show, but haven't pretended to be the kind of couple that knows where their significant other is at any given moment. He didn't think Steve would be interested in that play - he values his freedom and privacy too much.

“Sam mentioned that you should come,” Steve continues when it becomes clear to him that Bucky isn’t catching on to his meaning. “If you're free, that is,” he tacks on, like he's kind of hoping Bucky’ll say _sorry, but he's busy, maybe some other time_?

For a moment, he wants to be hurt by the implication that Steve doesn’t want to spend time with Bucky. They're getting along much better now, after a couple of weeks of hanging out two or three times per week, mostly working on their respective projects and assignments and chatting idly in between, and sometimes even getting food somewhere after and getting to know each other more over drinks. Then he looks at Steve, realises he looks more like a cat on hot bricks than like he just swallowed a lemon, and suddenly, he understands. Steve isn’t unhappy because Bucky will be there. He's unhappy because Bucky will be there with him in front of Sam.

“He getting worried he won't get to see you unless I'm there?” Bucky asks with a grin. “Or do you think he wants a show?”

Steve runs his hand through his hair. “I think mostly he wants to get to know you better, but yeah, he probably also wants to spy on us a little.”

“Ohh, am I going to get a shovel talk?” Bucky demands, excited. “I've never gotten one of those before.”

“Only you would be excited by that prospect.”

“It’s the thrill of new experiences.”

“Sure it is,” Steve allows generously, and only rolls his eyes a little.  “So you’re coming?”

“You’re not inviting Natasha, right? Because I feel like that might be a little advanced for us at this stage. Our first semi-official outing as a couple should probably not happen under that much scrutiny.”

“You think we won’t pass muster?” Steve asks, frowning.

“I think I’d much rather we swim with some turtles before we move on to the great white sharks.”

Steve stares at him. “I really don’t understand how your brain works.”

“I just mean we should ease into it.”

“I understood perfectly well what you meant. It’s the weird metaphors that you come up with that make me question your sanity. Anyway, you don’t have to worry, I don’t think she’s coming.”

Bucky shoots him a dirty look. “Good,” he says, “Sam’s less likely to notice any awkward moments that might come up, and much more likely to be more forgiving of things that don’t fit quite right. Nat is naturally suspicious. Sam is an optimist and a nice person and he wants us to be happy. Not that Nat doesn’t, just, you know… a test run on an easier level might be nice.”

“I agree.” Steve takes a deep breath. “So. We should probably talk about boundaries again before then.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. They’ve had this talk before, briefly; skirted around it, the first night in the bar when they were just tossing ideas around, and then again a little during their first not-date, but it hasn’t even come close to turning into tangible rules. They’re going to need them; Bucky has the impression that while Steve is comfortable in his body and his sexuality, he isn’t the biggest fan of excessive PDA. Bucky, on the other hand, is aware that he is a much more tactile person. If he overdoes it and gets to a point where he makes Steve uncomfortable, Sam will undoubtedly clock it, and that’ll be the end of their charade. "I tend to get handsy, so I need you to tell me where the line is before I get an elbow to the face."

"Who said you were going to get an elbow to the face?"

"Sorry, are you gonna go for the groin instead? That's just low, Rogers."

"I'm not -" Bucky raises an eyebrow. Steve deflates. "I wouldn't hit you," he insists quietly. "But-"

"But you'd get visibly uncomfortable," Bucky fills in the blank for him.

"Possibly."

"So tell me where the line is."

Steve studies Bucky for a moment. "You're being surprisingly chill about this."

Not for the first time, Bucky wants to ask him what kind of fucked up asshole Steve thinks he is, but he bites his tongue to keep himself from blurting out the question. He's not entirely sure he would like the answer. "It's not like I didn't expect this. You were already worried about doing too much in public when you were drunk, I imagine it must be worse when you're sober and you're not thinking with an alcohol-muddled brain and your dick. I'm not self-centred enough to presume your adversity to PDA is about me."

"You'd be surprised how many guys take it personally."

"Well, then they're assholes," Bucky says simply.

A small, pleased smile tugs at the corners of Steve's mouth, but it quickly turns into more of a grimace as he seriously considers it. "I don't suppose simple hand-holding would be enough to convince Natasha if she knows you're more one for the hands-on approach."

Bucky tilts his head. "Maybe if I tell her about your problem, but in the long run, if we don't seem comfortable around each other..."

"I don't have a problem. I just think certain things belong in a bedroom rather than on an open street."

"Okay, so, say we're at the movie night and sitting on the same sofa. Could I put my arm around you? Cuddle you? Dump my feet in your lap? What about endearments?"

Steve pulls a face.

"I'll keep going until I hit the point where you tell me you'll freeze and freak out," Bucky threatens.

"I wouldn't - no, all of that's fine. Just don't call me anything too outrageous, and don't stick your feet in my face, that's gross."

"Okay," Bucky says, accepting the answer without questioning it. "I'm guessing foot rubs are out, too. What about kissing?" he continues, ignoring Steve's glare. "I doubt Sam will buy it if I show up at your place and give you a bro-hug."

Steve glares harder. "Keep it chaste. Do not try to french me in front of him. Keep your hands above my clothes and don't grope me."

"All right." Bucky nods. "I can definitely work with that. Should we agree on a signal we can use in case either of us feels uncomfortable and needs to dial it back?"

"You want a safeword for this?"

Bucky shrugs. "Seems like a good idea, before one of us takes it somewhere the other doesn't want to go."

"Jersey," Steve says.

"Sorry?"

"Somewhere neither of us wants to go."

Bucky snorts. "Yeah, fair enough. That works. Do you, uh," he hesitates, “do you want to practise?”

“I think I’ll pass,” Steve says drily, twisting his fingers in the hem of his shirt and standing up rather abruptly. “Gotta run, anyway. See you Friday around six? I’ll text you the address.”

Right. Because Bucky still doesn’t actually know where Steve lives. He can’t pretend he’s not morbidly curious to see how Steve’s flat looks like. As of now, going by what he knows of Steve, he imagines his room to be meticulously clean, with either fancy art prints or social justice posters all over the walls, or maybe even both. Come to think of it, for all the shit Steve gave him for appearing like a hipster, he can totally see Steve having an old record player and rocking the 40’s shtick, making his coffee in an old stovetop espresso machine or whatever it is one used in those dark times.

“Should I bring a toothbrush?” he asks as Steve is pulling on his shoes.

Steve stills, head jerking up and looking a bit like a deer in the headlights.

“Am I staying over,” Bucky clarifies, although he’s pretty sure it doesn’t need clarifying. Steve’s been sleeping on the couch a few times already, usually grumbling profusely under his breath.

Steve clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, no, of course, makes sense.”

“Cool,” Bucky says, and gives him a thumbs up that may or may not turn out slightly sarcastic. It doesn’t matter either way, because Steve is too busy scurrying out the door to notice. At least he’s considerate enough to close the door quietly behind him instead of letting it slam shut.

Bucky sighs and lets his head fall on the sofa’s backrest. If Steve is running out on him after a simple discussion of what’s to come, he doesn’t think he’ll want to watch the inevitable train wreck that’s going to happen Friday night.

**∞**

It’s Steve who opens the door when he shows up at ten to six on Friday, blinking at him in confusion. “Buck. Hey. You’re early,” he says, which, frankly, is just rude. Bucky knows he has a habit of running just a tiny bit late, but he always makes sure to never fall into the obnoxiously late zone. He's _fashionably_ late. He likes showing up five to ten minutes late so he doesn’t have to wait around for the other person like an idiot. Not that people like Steve, who generally show up _exactly_ on time would ever understand that.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky can see Sam starting towards them, so he grins at Steve and says, “yeah, well, maybe I missed your stupid face.”

“You saw me three days ago,” Steve protests, predictably, the argumentative little shit.

“That’s my point,” Bucky says, curls a hand around Steve’s neck and tugs him forward, tilting his head up so he can kiss Steve firmly on the lips. Thankfully, the movement was obviously telegraphed enough that Steve doesn’t freeze or jerk back. Still, he makes a soft, surprised sound at the back of his throat before swaying closer to Bucky, allowing the kiss to deepen.

It's nothing raunchy, just the warm slide of lips against each other and their breaths intermingling, but it feels intimate in a way Bucky hadn't anticipated a fake, relatively chaste kiss in front of an audience could be. It should be awkward, but it isn't. Instead, it feels comfortable and familiar, like wrapping yourself in your favourite quilt, curling up on the couch and drinking hot chocolate. Bucky remembers how easily they had seemed to fit against each other the night of their one night stand, how moving in sync had been incredibly instinctual, nothing like his experiences with most casual hook-ups that involve a lot of fumbling and near-misses due to the lack of knowledge of what the other person likes. It had come as a surprise to him then, when he'd let himself think about it after, but it takes him more aback now that after weeks of toeing the line of either getting on great or terribly and falling off either side in equal measure, they can fall back into the simplicity of their bodies connecting with the snap of a finger. Even more surprisingly, maybe, is the fact that Steve shows no indication of breaking the kiss. It's Bucky who pulls back, and when he does, Steve blinks his eyes open, looking dazed.

"Hey," Bucky says quietly, and smiles what he thinks is the most besotted smile he can get away with without looking like a deranged serial killer.

"Hi." Steve's voice is low and rough, and confused, as if despite their discussion of this exact situation, he wasn't quite expecting to have one laid on him. He's not angry, so that's a plus, but maybe he needs a reminder of the situation, so Bucky murmurs "Sam's watching" against his lips.

Steve flinches minutely, before swallowing and forcibly making himself relax again. "Right," he mutters back. "Right." His own smile looks maybe a little strained, but Bucky doesn't think Sam notices, because when he lets his gaze slide over to where Sam is standing, he's watching them with something akin to approval.

Bucky disentangles himself from Steve and turns to Sam. "Hey, man," he says and gives him a fist bump. "Good seeing you again."

“Likewise. I wasn’t sure you two would leave your love nest for another few weeks.”

“Oh please, I haven’t been stealing that much of Steve’s time.”

“I’d be inclined to disagree, except every time Steve is here he gets that stupid hangdog expression on his face, like he wishes you were here.”

“No,” Bucky crows, “really?”

Steve makes a strangled sound. “Sam!” he complains, and dear Lord, he is blushing.

 _What is he doing?_ Bucky thinks wildly. He must have been laying some awesome groundwork with his apparently superior acting skills for Sam to say such a thing. Playing up his embarrassment is one thing, but he’s edging towards a territory of outright denial that would definitely give them away. Fuck it, he decides, he’ll just have to up his ante, to compensate for Steve’s shortcomings. He reaches out and grabs Steve’s hand, pulls him closer. “Sweetheart,” he croons, “are you missing me?”

Steve is too busy blushing to properly glare at him.

Sam nods solemnly. “It’s depressing as shit. Makes me wish he was spending less time here.”

“Liar,” Steve says. “You love me being here.”

“Not when you’re pining I don’t.”

“That’s alright, I’ll happily take him all day every day,” Bucky throws in, and Sam chokes on his laughter as Steve flushes an even darker shade of red.

“I bet you do. Have you two even left your bedroom?” Sam pauses. “No, wait, let me rephrase that: Have you two even left your apartment? I wanna keep my illusions about being able to safely sit on the couch if we ever hang out at your place.”

Bucky waggles his eyebrows. “I promise nothing,” he says. “But don’t worry, I’m doing right by your boy. I’m taking him to the Met this weekend.”

Steve’s head swivels around. “You are?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah.” Bucky swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. It was stupid to just announce it like that. He actually hadn’t planned to do anything of that kind, but it just sort of slipped out. He should have cleared it with Steve first. “You’re still free tomorrow, right? No work, no meetings or rallies or anything?” Steve shakes his head no. “Good, ‘cause there’s a new exhibit opening. I was gonna surprise you, but I thought I’d better double-check.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve says in a tone that implies he thinks Bucky is full of shit and making this up on the fly. “What’s the exhibit?”

“Vigée Le Brun,” he answers easily and watches in smug satisfaction as Steve’s eyes widen in surprise. He loves showing up people who are underestimating him, and Steve is definitely underestimating his dedication. And his intellect, which is frankly insulting. It was clear they couldn’t hide out in his apartment forever, so Bucky had planned for a few contingencies. And Bucky might not care a lick about art, but he knows Steve does, so a date in a museum had seemed like the most obvious choice, so he’d done his goddamn research like the goddamn professional scientist and fake boyfriend he was. “I thought you might like it. I mean, I think you’d probably enjoy Gentileschi more, what with the fight against the patriarchy, but I can’t offer that at the moment, seeing as I don’t have any input on which artists they display, but still, women painters.”

“You….know about those.” Steve says.

“Do I have a brain and a college education? Yes, I’ve heard of Gentileschi.”

“Not everyone has,” Steve points out.  “Schools don’t always cover this stuff and a lot of kids simply aren’t interested.”

“Well, I remembered some of it. And I have a boyfriend who is interested in art, so I’mma let you think real long and hard about why I might try to learn more about that.”

Steve looks floored. “I - “ he starts, cuts himself off and shakes his head, smiling at the ground. He almost looks sad, wistful. “I don’t know what to say. Just… that sounds great.”

Bucky maybe gapes at him a little. What kind of assholes did Steve date before that this is shocking him? To Bucky, showing interest in your significant other’s hobbies is the minimum effort you have to make for a relationship to work. To be fair, his research also took up a significant amount of time, which was exactly the kind of thing Bucky had not wanted to invest in a relationship, which was why he’d rejected Natasha and Clint’s attempts at matchmaking before. He’s self-aware enough to realise he’s been kind of biting himself in the ass here. But in his defense, he’s been known to go on Wikipedia binges and only surface three days later so doing some reading for a couple of hours is practically nothing, and it had actually been pretty fascinating even if he knows nothing about art. Not to mention that it’s useful for him to have material that allows him to hold a conversation with Steve and make it look like they have a great relationship.

And he knows he shouldn’t ask, because Sam is standing right next to them, and it’s definitely not a question Steve will take kindly, but he is genuinely appalled, and it tumbles off his tongue before he can bite back the words. “What kind of assholes have you dated?”

Predictably, Steve’s expression shutters immediately. Bucky redirects the question to Sam. “What kind of assholes has he dated?”

“I’m staying out of this,” Sam says, holding his hands up with his palms out, but looking at Bucky with something akin to approval.

“Not all of them were assholes,” Steve snaps. “Peggy was - stop assuming things!”

“Okay,” Bucky says, and Steve relaxes visibly, mollified by his easy agreement. Better to drop the topic now before everything goes awry. Bucky kind of wants to say that based on what he’s just learnt, Steve has dated a grand total of one (1) decent person, which is so depressing and jarringly unfair it makes something clench in his chest. Bucky is a great pretend boyfriend, but he is also objectively a pretty terrible real boyfriend to Steve. Hell, he’s not been all that great at even being a _friend_ to Steve. He hasn’t really tried to be, even and that’s… it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, that all he did was think for about five minutes about what he thought Steve might like, and then a little bit more time to do research on that, and yet it seems like he still treats him better than some of the people Steve has dated for real. For all that Steve is a prickly asshole half the time and being with him can be exhausting, that’s just terrible. Everything Bucky has learnt about Steve Rogers so far tells him that, his terrible temper aside, he is a genuinely good person.  

He deserves better than this, Bucky thinks. He deserves Bucky being better than this. Maybe if Bucky makes an actual effort to show Steve he is not an asshole they’ll actually get along better.

Maybe they’ll actually become friends.

“Steve Rogers,” he says seriously, grabbing his hand in a tight grip, hoping that’ll convey his meaning, “I’m going to date the shit out of you.”

“Please don’t,” Steve deadpans. “Sam will confirm that I barely have my shit together, what will i do if you date it out of me?”

Sam guffaws.

“That is the worst joke I have ever heard,” Bucky marvels.

Steve shrugs. “Thought I’d get down to your level for once.”

“I’m going to date you so hard.”

“Are we still talking about dating? Because I kinda feel like we’re not talking about dating anymore,” Sam remarks.

Bucky winks at him. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep that part out of your sight, save it for when you’re asleep. Now, I was promised pizza and movies.”

Things go surprisingly smoothly after that. They settle on the couch, with Bucky pulling Steve close and wrapping an arm around his shoulder, which Steve gracefully allows with only minimal and subtle glowering. They order a couple of pizzas and watch a terrible horror movie - as it turns out, Steve is _vicious_ in his commentary and makes both Bucky and Sam choke on their food from laughing too hard - and when Bucky cards his fingers through Steve’s hair at one point, all he does is shiver and snuggle closer instead of moving away.

He catches Sam watching them from the corner of his eye once, not seeming the least bit suspicious, and mentally high-fives himself. They are super convincing. It doesn’t even matter to him that the moment Sam bids them goodnight and closes his bedroom door behind him, Steve slips out from under his arm and sits at the other end of the couch.

It doesn’t matter, because they are geniuses. They are fantastic at this.

This is going to give Bucky joy _forever._

They run into the first true fake relationship hang-up when they're getting ready to go to bed. Bucky follows Steve into his bedroom, closes the door behind him, and then freezes when Steve dumps a few blankets in his arms.

"Uh," he says intelligently.

"What?" Steve asks.

"I am not," Bucky says slowly, staring at the air mattress stretching perpendicular to the foot of Steve's bed, "sleeping on the ground."

Steve looks at him, looks pointedly at the bed- which is basically just a small double, holy shit, how does he fit his shoulders on there anyway? - and then back at him. "Yes, you are."

"First of all, no," Bucky says. He may only be in his mid-twenties and generally healthy, but he has slept on enough lumpy air mattresses to know that they absolutely kill his back. "Second of all, no fucking way."

"I'm not giving you the bed," Steve insists.

Bucky takes a step forward, nudges the sad-looking mattress with his toe and levels a glare at Steve when some air escapes with a hissing sound.

"Fine," Steve bites out. "You take the bed, I'll take the couch."

"Do I really need to explain the flawed logistics of that?" Bucky asks, flabbergasted, ignoring the tick in Steve's jaw. "What're you gonna tell Sam when he gets up in the morning and finds you sleeping there?"

"I'll be up way before him."

"You can't know that. So please, by all means, give me your genius explanation."

"I'm shy," Steve tries.

"We spent the last “date nights” over at my place under the pretence of us having shitloads of sex, so I don't think that excuse is gonna fly, buddy," Bucky reminds him, wavering between amusement and irritation.

"You snore."

"I don't snore," Bucky protests, offended.

"Sam doesn't know that," Steve argues.

"If I did snore and it was so loud it kept you from sleeping, wouldn't you have told him by now?"

"Fine," Steve hisses. "So I'll take the floor."

Bucky raises his eyebrows, levels another sceptical look at the sad lump on the ground, and shrugs. With Steve, he is quickly learning, you have to pick your battles. He's in almost constant fight mode, and some things just aren't worth arguing about. He got what he wanted, anyway. "If Sam bursts into this room and finds you on the floor I'm telling him I kicked you out of bed because you hogged the covers."

"He won't do that. Never does, because he respects my privacy. And he especially doesn't do it when I have someone over."

Bucky thinks back to all the times he accidentally gave Clint and Natasha an eyeful. "Your friends are nicer than mine, apparently."

Steve grins a little. "Well, he did learn it the hard way."

"At least he's teachable. Mine are immune."

Steve snorts a little and tells Bucky to use the bathroom first. He brushes his teeth quickly, strips down to his boxers when he returns to the bed and crawls under the covers. He's staring idly at the ceiling when Steve returns from his own trip to the bathroom, dressed in honest to God pyjama pants - who above the age thirteen even wears those anymore? Steve Rogers, that's who - and a worn t-shirt. "Good night," he says as he gingerly stretches out on the air mattress. Bucky opens his mouth to reply in kind, but he's cut off by all the air suddenly leaving the mattress in one long, rippling sound.

There's a beat of ringing silence in the aftermath, and then Bucky bursts out laughing. Steve's head is coming into view at the foot of the bed as he sits up slowly, the look of confusion and shock on his face melting into one of utter betrayal, and that just sets Bucky off again. He laughs until his ribs hurt and there are tears streaming down his face, because he is secretly nine years old and hasn't outgrown that phase where fart noises are the funniest thing on the planet yet, and Steve's face is, like, the cherry on top.

"Mature," Steve mutters grumpily, and, judging by the rustling of blankets, tries to rearrange them in a way that allows him to both lie on top of a few of them and use another to wrap around himself.

"Oh my God, dude," Bucky wheezes, trying to catch his breath. He shifts on the bed, lets his head hang off one side to confirm that Steve, stubborn idiot that he is, is indeed trying to turn himself into a human blanket burrito on the floor. "Come up here."

"I - " Steve starts. Bucky cuts him off before he can say something stupid.

"Steve," he says, exasperated. It's not like this will be the first time they are sharing a bed. Sure, the circumstances were wildly different last time, but he's sure they can get past the awkwardness. "Get off the goddamn floor and get your ass into bed. I promise I'll respect your virtue."

As expected, Steve makes his best bitch face, but he does scramble off the floor and onto the bed as Bucky moves to wedge his own body as close to the wall as possible. He feels a little like a flatfish, and it's still not enough to avoid all points of contact when they're both stretched out next to each other. It's a little awkward with both of them lying on their backs, and way too cramped, but Bucky doesn't want to roll on his side. They'd have more room if they both did, but they'd either end up uncomfortably breathing into each other's faces or quasi-spooning, and that'd be worse. He's a tactile person by nature, and that only intensifies during the night. The moment he rolls on his side while asleep, he knows he'll attach himself to Steve like an octopus. Better to avoid that when he's conscious enough to be embarrassed by it. He figures if all that happens with both of them sleeping on their backs is that they knock shoulders every once in a while, he'll take that.

"I'll buy a new air mattress tomorrow," Steve says after a few moments of tense silence.

"You do that," Bucky replies, and then he closes his eyes and does his damnedest to give the impression of someone falling asleep.

**∞**

Predictably, Bucky wakes up decidedly not on his side of the bed. Instead, he has his legs tangled with Steve’s and his face smushed into Steve’s shoulder, one arm thrown over his waist, keeping him close.  The only thing that makes the situation bearable instead of embarrassing is that he is not the only one to have moved in his sleep; Steve, it appears, is also an unconscious sleep cuddler, both of his arms in a tight circle around Bucky.

Bucky thanks his lucky stars that Steve is still asleep and, perhaps even more importantly, that his dick hadn’t woken up before him. And yes, he knows it’s a normal physiological reaction and _it happens_ and Steve would probably understand, but it’d probably make things rather awkward between them.

Well, more awkward than they already are. Bucky’s self-aware enough to know that while they fake being comfortable around each other well, they are still a long way from actually being comfortable.

He starts to carefully extricate himself from Steve’s clutches, a process that’s being met by vaguely protesting snuffles from Steve -  and isn’t that just the cutest fucking thing - and sits up slowly. He misses the warmth of the cocoon made up of Steve and blankets immediately, but it’s probably better to skedaddle before Steve wakes up fully. Sleep cuddles are one thing; consciously burrowing back into his arms is another thing entirely.

Bucky climbs out at the foot of the bed instead of over Steve in order to prevent waking him and promptly slips on the sad remains of the air mattress still on the ground there. He barely manages to catch himself before his head connects with the edge of the dresser, _what the fuck_ , and, after a moment of soundless cursing, decides to quickly pull on his jeans. It’s been a while since Bucky’s had to deal with potentially having to face someone’s roommate in the morning, so he’s a little rusty on the proper etiquette, but he’s sure even though they’re kind of buddies, Sam would appreciate it if he didn’t have to watch Bucky wander around in his boxers. Come to think of it, Steve would definitely appreciate it too, considering how he reacted when Bucky sort of flashed the person they woke up to. Certainly, the situation was different, but still.

Manners, is the point. Bucky Barnes has them.

Usually.

He goes to the bathroom first and then strolls into the kitchen. Sam’s already there, puttering around.

“Morning,” he greets Bucky cheerfully.

“Coffee?” Bucky asks, voice hopeful and possibly slightly pathetic. Mornings are so very much not his friend without the right caffeine intake.

“Should be finished in a minute,” Sam assures him. “Help yourself to anything for breakfast.”

“Awesome.” Bucky opens the fridge. “You want pancakes?” he asks after a quick peek inside.

“Hell yeah,” Sam says. “Man, you’re a godsend. Tell Steve if he doesn’t lock you down, I might just try and steal you away. Speaking of him, I’m kinda surprised you’re up earlier than him. He’s usually the first one up, and from what he tells me you ain’t exactly one to greet the sun, if you know what I mean.”

Bucky snorts. Does he ever. “Steve’s mattress is shit,” he says in way of a response. It’s true, too, although the twinge in his back has more likely been caused by the awkward, stiff way he held himself during the tense hours when he tried to fall asleep without touching Steve. “I think his muscles may be softer than that mattress, and his abs are hard as fuck.”

Sam laughs, loud and boisterous. “Looks like you’ve already found a solution to your problem. Just sleep on top of him next time.”

As if on cue, the door to Steve’s bedroom opens and the man himself comes shuffling out, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Morning, sunshine.” Bucky smirks from behind his coffee cup as Steve grimaces slightly at the nickname. “Sleep well?”

“Until someone decided to make a ruckus, yeah.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for nearly braining myself on your furniture by accident this early in the morning, I’ll make sure to do that at a more convenient time in the future,” Bucky snarks.

“Or maybe you could just not strew your clothes all over the floor and you wouldn’t have that problem,” Steve retorts, saccharinely sweet, which is wildly unfair, because yeah, Bucky may drop his stuff all over the floor but it wasn’t his clothes that he tripped over. Bucky is a pro at navigating his way around the clothes on the floor.

“Sure,” he says, grinning and fluttering his eyelashes, because he can be an asshole, too. “I’ll get right on that, as soon as you stop leaving your dirty dishes in the sink.”

“At least dirty dishes in the sink aren’t gonna kill you.”

“They’re a goddamn breeding ground for germs and they stink up the apartment, Steve. Just rinse ‘em and put them in the fucking dishwasher, it’s what it’s there for!”

Sam is looking between them like he’s watching a tennis match. “Wow,” he says, “did you get married while we weren't looking?”

“What?”

“Just saying.” Sam shrugs. “You’re having domestic quarrels like an old married couple, and unless you kept it super quiet last night you went to bed without fucking each other senseless. Not that I'm complaining, I like getting to both catch my eight hours of sleep and keep my innocence.”

“Oh trust me, that was not for lack of interest,” Bucky says, being the first one to regain his composure. Steve is definitely quietly freaking out next to him, so Bucky slips an arm around his waist in what he hopes is a casual-looking gesture and squeezes Steve's hip in a warning to play along. Steve jumps a little when Bucky digs his fingers in too sharply but within the blink of an eye he relaxes and melts against Bucky, leaning into him. “The romance isn't dead. It's just that _someone_ -” he levels a playful glare at Steve for maximum effect “-refused to fuck within earshot of his roommate.”

Sam frowns and narrows his eyes. “Rogers, I've heard you have sex before. I know you know I've heard you have sex. As much as it pains me to say it, I'm familiar with your sex noises.”

Shit. Why didn't Bucky think of that? Steve is a bit of a prude, but he's been living with Sam for a long time. They're good friends and it's unreasonable to assume that, thin walls or not, Steve has never brought anyone home.

There's only one way to salvage this. Bucky puts on his most obscene leer and says, offhandedly, “I don’t think you've heard him make these kinds of sounds before. But if you did then I sure hope you've invested in some good earplugs, ‘cause I've gotten five noise complaints from my neighbours already what with him screaming the apartment down.”

Sam chokes on his coffee. Steve does, too, and he blushes such a furious red that Bucky is worried for a second that he's having an aneurysm.

“Man, what - never mind, I don't wanna know.”

"You asked." Bucky shrugs.

"No," says Sam, shaking his head furiously. "No, I absolutely didn't. Please don't make me listen to any more of this."

"Okay," Bucky agrees easily. "Looks like there'll continue to be a no sex rule in the Wilson-Rogers household." He drops a small kiss on Steve's shoulder; a tiny gesture, nothing more than a chaste peck, a faint brush of his lips against cloth that barely allows the warmth of Steve's skin to seep through it. He's seen Natasha and Clint do it a lot, and he's always thought it looked intimate, affectionate. The way couples would be around each other, first thing in the morning. It must be convincing, because Sam averts his eyes a little, smiles down at his coffee mug and thankfully misses the wide-eyed look Steve directs at Bucky. Bucky can't place the expression on his face; surprised, maybe, and a little scared. It makes something twist deep inside Bucky's chest, and he wants that expression gone as soon as possible, so he plasters on a smile, winks at Steve and adds, "at least until I get you a gag or something."

"Oh no," Sam says, slamming his mug on the counter and covering his ears. "Oh hell no!"

Bucky laughs in his face. Steve, meanwhile, does his best to hide his face behind his hands. The tips of his ears have turned an even darker red than before, and Bucky reaches out to flick one gently. "Relax, baby. Nothing to be ashamed of."

"Why do I even like you?" Steve whines despairingly, voice still muffled by his palms.

Bucky pauses for a moment, because it sounds more honest than it was possibly intended. "It's a mystery for the ages," he comments.

"Man, I hate to say this, but I'm pretty sure I was just rather explicitly told the answer to that question," Sam butts in, having removed his fingers from his ears.

"Rude," Bucky retorts. "He totally loves me for my charming personality and dashing wit."

"And your dick."

"And my dick, too," Bucky agrees, turning back to the cabinets to pull a bowl down to the counter. "And my excellent breakfast food. Pancakes?"

Between the three of them, they demolish a small mountain of pancakes and drink enough coffee to wake an elephant. Sam leaves the cleanup to them after, claiming it's compensation for his need to go and scrub his brain clean. Normally, Bucky might point out that since he is the guest and he already did the cooking, the clean-up should be Sam and Steve’s job, but he lets him have this one; Sam deserves it.

They're cleaning the dishes in companionable silence, when Steve asks, slightly pained: "Do you have to....be so crass in your oversharing?"

"Yup."

"Bucky, can we -"

"Oversharing," Bucky replies sagely, "is the single most efficient parenting tool in existence."

"We're not trying to raise them," Steve says, somewhere between amused and aghast. “They are not our kids. We are not their parents!”

"Really, that’s what you’re focusing on? That’s all you got out of it? I know we’re not parenting them, but it’s the same principle." Bucky shrugs, forgetting he's elbow-deep in water  and sending suds flying. Some lands on his nose, and he glares at it crossly until Steve huffs, and dabs his dishtowel at it mulishly for long enough to get most of it. "The point is, Sam? Is never going to ask about our sex life again. And if he tells Natasha, which he will, she's gonna steer clear of that topic, too. Trust me, it's a foolproof method, works every time. You tell them way more than they ever wanted to know, they'll not bring this up again."

"Had a lot of experience with this, have you?" Steve asks.

"First-hand." He hesitates. "Was that....was that too much? You didn't safeword but-"

"No, it's - it's okay. Your parents teach you this?"

"Who else?" Bucky grimaces. "Seriously, if you are sixteen and ask for the car keys to take out a girl on a date, and they start loudly reminiscing the days when they drove to the local make-out point to have sex, that's more than enough to make your dick shrivel in your pants every time you look at the back seat."

Steve laughs. "I'm guessing you didn't lose your virginity in that particular cliché way, then?"

"Nah. No way I could've, after that. We made sweet love in my bed, on clean sheets and in goddamn candlelight, which I suppose is as it should've been. And, as it turns out, it was exactly what my mother intended, because, I quote 'that lovely young lady deserves more than a quick, cramped romp in the back of a dirty car, young man!'"

"And by sweet love you mean -"

"It was fumbled and awkward, and over in like five minutes just like everyone's first time, Steve, what else could I possibly mean? You think I was born a sex god?"

"I think you vastly overestimate your sexual prowess."

"How dare you!" Bucky flicks some suds at him in mock outrage. "What about you?" he asks after a moment, dumping the pan in the sink.

"What about me?"

"Your first time, man. Since we're sharing stories, and all that."

"I didn't realise we were sharing," Steve says, blinking innocently. "Mostly I thought you were demonstrating your oversharing technique again."

"Screw you, pal." Bucky grins, bumps their shoulders together. "Come on, dish. It's only fair. Even the playing field." He's met with suspicious silence. Bucky feels his smile drop, and he looks up from scrubbing the pan. "Look, you don't gotta - if it's not -"

"No, no, it's fine," Steve says, drawing in a deep breath. "It wasn't....bad."

"But?" Bucky prompts gently.

"Well, the guy clearly didn't have anyone who told him to go all-out for their date."

"My mama raised me right," Bucky agrees. "But you're right, not everyone is lucky enough to have this sort of parent."

"It wasn't like-" Steve cuts himself off, shrugs. "I gave him a blowjob in the mud under the bleachers after a football game. He wouldn't let me kiss him after, and he didn't look me in the eye again the following day at school, and that was that. Closeted. You know how it goes."

"That’s fucking awful."

"Nah, it was okay," Steve says and shrugs again. "Just not the most romantic story to tell. And it's not like I didn't know what I was signing up for. Even if he hadn't been in the closet, I knew he'd never publically have been with me. I was a hundred pounds soaking wet, loud-mouthed and opinionated as shit and pretty much always sick. No one wanted anything to do with me."

"That-" Bucky starts.

"Doesn't matter anymore," Steve continues forcefully. "Things changed. I went to college, met Sam, grew like three feet...and my second time was a lot better than my first. As was every time after that, with the exception of that one time a guy _took me to the wrong apartment_."

"Fuck you, Rogers, will you ever let that go?" Bucky asks, an automatic response to the teasing. He’s got the feeling that Steve is very deliberately deflecting, and maybe he’ll ask about it some time, but for now he knows better than to ignore the metaphorical _keep out!_ sign plainly written all over Steve’s face despite his joking tone. So he’s not going to make Steve talk about it. Not just now.

"Never."

"Ugh." Bucky pulls the plug, rinses the pan and hands it to Steve before towelling dry his hands, biting his lips. "You want my honest opinion?" he asks, carefully not looking at Steve, because he also doesn’t think he can let it slide completely. God, but he’s an idiot.

Steve stills beside him. "I'd rather you didn't. I can live without your pity."

"Good, 'cause I wasn't gonna give you any," Bucky says, turning around to face Steve now, leaning his hip against the counter. "I was just gonna say the people at your high school were fucking idiots for not seeing a good thing that was right in front of them." He bites his lip. “I don’t know you very well, but I do know that. You’d have to be fucking braindead not to see it.”

When Steve looks up, Bucky is once again struck by how fucking blue his eyes are. It shouldn't surprise him anymore, but somehow it still does.  

"Yeah?" Steve breathes.

"Yeah," Bucky replies quietly. He swallows, and thinks he'll have to look away soon, before he goes and does something stupid like kiss Steve to make him feel less sad. But he can't seem to tear his eyes away from Steve, and the open, pole-axed look on his face.

It's Sam, in the end, who prevents a possible disaster by walking back into the kitchen. "Oh God, I can't even with you two assholes," he complains. "You're getting caught up gazing lovingly into each other's eyes while doing the dishes, this is fucking ridiculous. I'm going out. Please go and have loud sex to get it out of your system."

Steve gapes at Sam until the front door falls shut behind him.

"Well," Bucky says. "That went well, don't you think? Totally got him fooled." He pats Steve on the back and quickly escapes to the bathroom to brush his teeth and maybe regain his footing.

**∞**

“Are you sure about this?”

Bucky turns to Steve, incredulously taking in the way he’s jiggling his knee where he’s standing, shoulders hunched and a complicated expression on his face, part stupidly hopeful, part resigned, like he expects the answer to be no and kind of hates the fact that he was brought up to be polite enough to offer Bucky the chance to back out. Like Bucky’s gonna bow out ten steps from the finish line.

“I can go alone, it’s no problem.”

“The fuck would you do that for?” Bucky asks.

Steve shrugs. “You don’t like art,” he says offhandedly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“How do you know that?” Bucky challenges, indignation creeping into his voice. Steve couldn’t possibly know this about him. Maybe he’s a secret art connoisseur. Maybe he’s a collector. Maybe he’s a frequent visitor of art galleries and museums. Maybe… okay, he’s totally not. Steve’s assessment of his relationship with art isn’t far off the mark, but it’s the principle of the thing. “I love art. Didn’t your mother teach you not to make assumptions?”

Steve wordlessly raises an eyebrow, which, okay, fair enough.

Bucky sighs. “I don’t…not like art,” he hedges, and it’s true. He doesn’t dislike art, he just mostly doesn’t understand it. He can appreciate the beauty of some paintings, and theoretically he knows that painting is fucking difficult, but he doesn’t know enough about techniques and colours and shit to really admire most paintings he’s come across. His parents had dragged him to a couple of museums as a child, because they thought it was kind of mandatory, but they hadn’t been able to explain art to him, to open his mind up to that particular corner of the world, because they, too, know fuck all about art. Paintings have always been just pretty (or in some cases not so pretty) pictures to him. He knows that some paintings make him feel sort of calm, the kind you’d maybe hang on your living room wall, and some landscape paintings make him think that the world sure is pretty and maybe he’d like to see it for five minutes before going back to the city, and most old portraits just looking fucking weird to him, and why would anyone be interested in drawing a bowl of fruit?

To this day, the only drawings he can really relate to are blueprints of machines. It’s not something he’s ever had a problem with. Except now he’s looking at Steve, thinking about the anticipation lighting up his eyes when he first told him he was going to take him here, and he thinks maybe he kind of wants to understand. Maybe he just needs someone who can teach him.

“It’s okay,” Steve says. “I know you didn’t actually mean it when you said...that thing about dating me. You don’t gotta - look, none of our friends are here, there’s no need to keep up the act. We can just take a photo here as proof that we went. You don’t have to suffer through something you don’t like with me.”

 _Christ, who hurt you_ , Bucky wants to blurt out and thankfully doesn’t. He’s kind of gotten this surprised reaction from a couple of girls he’s dated, who told him that they’d sort of always been expected, even assumed, to show interest in their boyfriends’ hobbies without ever having the guys give up time to come watch them play netball and cheer them on or go to their concert. He’d be less twisted up about Steve expressing this sort of mentality if he actually thought this was about them not really dating, and not Steve being unused to his actual dates not giving a fuck.

“Firstly,” he says, “I’m not _suffering_ through anything. I want to go. I’m a grown-ass man and I know what I want.”

Steve looks at him for a moment. “Okay,” he says eventually. “And secondly?”

“Secondly what?”

“Well, you started off with ‘firstly’. If you do that you’re supposed to have a second point -”

“Smartass.” Bucky cuffs him gently on the head. “Teach me about art, Rogers.”

“Okay.” Steve takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

They both pay for their own ticket and head inside. The exhibition is busy, but thankfully not that crowded that any enjoyment becomes automatically impossible. Bucky squints at the big paintings hung right at the beginning, of the queen Marie Antoinette in an opulent court dress. “It’s pretty,” he says hesitantly, although he privately thinks that the queen looks more like a mannequin than a living, breathing person. “If you disregard the fact that fashion at that time was awful. How’d she fit through the doors?”

Steve laughs. “Sideways, I suppose, if the palace doors weren’t wide enough, which probably didn’t happen often. Have you seen the palace of Versailles?”

“Can’t say I have. It being in Europe and all.”

“That’s what the internet is for, dummy. Also, you’re lying.”

“What?”

“‘It’s pretty’,” Steve mimics with an exaggerated grimace on his face. “How much did it pain you to say that?”

“It didn’t pain me that much, Rogers, don’t be an ass,” Bucky says, knocking his shoulder into Steve’s. He can’t help but be delighted - he kind of loves it when Steve gives him shit like that. Their bantering arguments are much more enjoyable without Steve actually flying off the handle. He purses his lips. “Will you strangle me if I say she looks kind of like a dead fish?”

“Oh my God,” Steve bursts out laughing. “Tell me what you really think!”

“I just did!” .

“That’s my point.”

“You asked!” Bucky protests.

“Come on,” Steve says, still laughing, and drags him along, to another painting of Marie Antoinette, this time in a much less pompous get-up. “Is this one more to your liking, your Highness?”

“It’s better,” Bucky admits. “At least in my completely unqualified opinion.”

“Well, the other one's pretty famous, but it’s also pretty much universally agreed that it’s not her best work. It’s pretty stiff, stilted, if you know what I mean. Now _this one_ is interesting -” he gestures at the portrait in front of them “- not just because of how much more realistic it looks, but also because it was the first time anyone had dared to show the queen without the royal insignia.”

“How shocking.”

“You laugh, but it’s true,” Steve says. “It was a huge scandal. The painting was first shown in Versailles in 1783 and caused such an uproar that they had to pull it. Showing her like this was practically just one step down from painting her naked.”

Bucky bites his lip. Obviously he’s failing at being inconspicuous about it, as Steve side-eyes him and sighs. “It’s okay. You can say it. I know you want to.”

“You don’t know what I was gonna say. I wasn’t gonna say anything. Why do you always assume the worst about me?” Bucky grumbles, mock outraged.

Steve fixes him with a look.

“Yeah, alright,” Bucky admits. “I was totally gonna make a joke about the Queen asking Le Brun to draw her like one of her French girls.” He cocks his head. “You know, it’s doubly funny because they actually were both French girls.”

Steve sighs deeply, like the words physically pain him, even though he made Bucky say them, the bastard. He was going to spare him. Steve shot himself in the knee, there.

As they walk around the exhibition, Steve continues to tell him more about some of the pieces’ origins, little tidbits and stories, and when Bucky asks, he also talks about colours and techniques, which honestly goes completely over Bucky’s head. The history nerd in him rejoices in learning about Le Brun’s struggles as a female painter, or how the plan to paint Marie Antoinette with her children to make her more sympathetic completely backfired. The rest of it...well, Bucky can admit that the paintings, mostly portraits of aristocratic women, are quite pretty. When Steve points it out, he can see how they get better the more experience and practice Le Brun had, and maybe, if he squints, he can maybe...no, he admits to himself, he can’t really see what Steve’s saying when he talks about stuff like the painter having sympathy for the subject and how there’s a sensuality and directness about the portrayal and...yeah. He totally doesn’t get it.

Steve notices, of course, even though he does his best to appear like he understands everything. “And if you look here, you see that -” he breaks off mid-sentence, interrupting his own lecture, and grimaces, chagrined. “You don’t see it, do you?”

“Sorry,” Bucky apologises automatically.  

“That’s not - why are you apologising? I’m the one who should be - I’ve, God, I’ve been droning on, you must be bored out of your mind, why didn’t you stop me?”

“I’m not bored,” Bucky says, because it’s easier to admit than letting the words that nearly trip over his tongue out, the truths that are taking him aback, truths like: _I like listening to you talk. I like seeing how passionate you get about things._ It’s not really something he wants to contemplate right now. It’s certainly not something he needs Steve to know. He wouldn’t believe Bucky if he told him anyway, so he smiles and says, “I like the history bits.”

“But you -” Steve looks about ready to vanish into the floor. It leaves Bucky bewildered, how Steve has no qualms about delivering a long rant about social justice issues when he feels like Bucky deserves to be knocked around the head, but is so weirdly self-conscious about sharing more intimate parts of himself.

“Hey,” he says sharply, grabbing Steve’s arm. “Steve. Listen to me. I’m not bored. _I’m not_. I don’t need to understand everything perfectly in order to enjoy it. I don’t fucking get how black holes work, that doesn’t mean I don’t find them fascinating. Besides,” he adds, as Steve slowly seems to unwind, corner of his mouth curling upwards, “sometimes the company is more interesting than the thing, anyway.”

Steve’s smile grows, mirroring Bucky’s own, before it falters. An uncomfortable expression flits over his face. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Jesus Christ, Rogers.” Bucky throws his hands up in the air, exasperated. “Do I look like I have a death wish?”

“I’m taking that as a no,” Steve says drily. “Although, to be fair, you do stupid shit like climbing through the wrong window, so I really can’t negate that.”

“Fuck you,” Bucky replies cheerily. “Are you always this paranoid?”

“Only when I have reason to be.”

“Thinking quite highly of yourself here, aren’tcha?” Bucky ribs him gently and immediately winces at himself. Really, the opposite seems to be the case with Steve, so that particular joke probably doesn’t sell well. He barrells on before he can get stuck on Steve’s reaction and let the moment hang long enough to ruin everything. “Don’t worry, I’m smart and I value my balls where they are, thank you very much.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “You do know what Natasha’s gonna do to your balls if she ever finds out we’ve been playing them, right?”

Bucky does know. He has imagined it, vividly. He kind of has nightmares about it, but only a little. He plans on letting a lot of time pass before he actually drops that bomb to make sure there’s a chance of her being more amused than angry. Maybe when he's, like, fifty. Or better yet, when he’s on his deathbed. “She won’t find out unless you can’t keep a lid on it.”

“I can keep a lid on it,” Steve says stubbornly. “I’m not gonna say anything. You’re the one who likes to run his mouth.”

“Great. So while I work on keeping my mouth shut -” and fair enough, he does need some practise with that apparently, seeing how often his mouth runs away with him “-maybe work on not giving us away by being completely gobsmacked every time I do or say something nice.”

“I don’t do that!”

“Yeah, you do,” Bucky replies matter-of-factly. “And we might get away with your _aw shucks_ routine for a while, but not in the long run. So that’s what that was about. I wouldn’t call it flirting if neither of us mean it, but whatever you wanna call it, I’ll keep doing it till you stop reacting like a deer in the headlights.” He pauses. “Also, sometimes people say nice things just because they are true, not because they want to get in your pants.”

Steve stares at him for a long moment. Then he shakes his head. “So you’re saying-”

“That I prefer you over an art exhibition, yes,” Bucky says sardonically.

“Seems like a low bar to cross, from your perspective,” Steve jokes.

“You are a lot of things, and some of them unflattering, but at least you’re never boring.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I got a feeling I gotta start low if I wanna get you used to compliments.”

“I’m not even sure it was a compliment,” Steve snarks.

“Well, you gotta take what you can get.” Bucky shrugs. “We’ll work our way up to normal-level stuff, don’t you worry. Now come on, Professor Rogers, I didn’t pay fifteen bucks for you to neglect your duties, so tell me about the goddamn societal implications of painting women with their mouths open or whatever.”

**∞**

Sleeping in, Bucky thinks drowsily, is the the single greatest gift to mankind. Nothing is better than waking up in the morning in your own time and then getting to turn around, closing your eyes and sleeping some more. Lazing around in bed for hours would admittedly be even nicer if he had someone to cuddle with, but Steve wouldn’t be amenable to that. He’s also one of those monsters that enjoy a morning run, pretending the exercise energises them for the day ahead of them. The mere notion makes Bucky want to puke. He works out, but he uses it to burn off excess energy in the evening, and then he collapses in bed for seven hours minimum. In his book, the only acceptable early morning exercise is lazy morning sex. Maybe even energetic morning sex, if you’re persuasive enough. Just, no exertion that doesn’t bring pleasure, is the point.

But Steve is a weirdo, so Bucky has the bed to himself and can continue his blissful dozing until Steve comes back and finally kicks him out and send him away to do absolutely nothing at all at home. He has no shift at the library today, and he’s made a good dent in his coursework already, and so he figures he’s earnt a day of being utterly unproductive. He maybe _should_ do some cleaning, because he hasn’t really been doing any of that since Steve was upgraded from _casual acquaintance_ to _friend_ by virtue of being around so often that Bucky literally has no energy to clean his home for someone who is not really a visitor anymore.

They’ve started to hang out so frequently that Steve is now easily the person he spends the most time with, seeing each other nearly every second day. They do movie nights with Sam on Fridays, and they’ve had a couple of double dates with Natasha and Clint that went off without a hitch, much to Bucky’s satisfaction. Still, most of their time together is spent in Bucky’s apartment, for sake of convenience, and apparently it’s been giving Steve the impression that he’s allowed to have opinions on Bucky’s living space now. He’s been giving Bucky pinched looks the last few times when he noticed the growing state of messiness of his apartment, but since Steve doesn’t actually live there full time, and still makes him fold his clothes and put them on a chair whenever Bucky stays over at his place, Bucky is of the opinion that Steve can kindly go fuck himself and deal with Bucky’s preferred way of life.

Eventually, he decides to go and make himself some coffee. Since Sam and Steve are both out and he has the flat to himself, he doesn’t bother to put on any other clothes than the boxers he’s wearing, having chucked his t-shirt halfway through the night because Steve is a goddamn furnace come to life, and Bucky would rather Steve bitch at him for making him deal with too much naked skin than waking up soaked in sweat every morning.

It’s gotten marginally less awkward, waking up next to Steve. Or maybe it’s not less awkward waking up plastered to a guy you’re only fake dating, but at least they have gotten enough practice steadfastly ignoring any indecent situations and bulldozing over the awkwardness, as if pretending the weirdness isn’t there can make it magically disappear. It doesn’t, but they’ve established a decent routine, in Bucky’s opinion, where Bucky wakes up and bitches about being too warm, and Steve hogging the covers, and Steve sniping back that if he is too warm he obviously doesn’t need the covers all that much, and giving Bucky grief about how much he apparently tosses and turns during the night. It usually distracts them from unwelcome boner situations long enough until the problem resolves itself and they find even footing again.

Bucky almost prefers those mornings to the ones where he wakes up to find Steve is already gone. But only almost.

There’s still coffee in the pot in the kitchen, and Bucky takes it all back - Steve can be an early-rising, morning-run enjoying person forever if he keeps making coffee and saving some for Bucky. He greedily inhales the steam rising up from his cup, closing his eyes and letting himself get lost in plans of what exactly his plans of doing nothing will entail. He could binge-watch a new show, he supposes, but that seems almost like a too big commitment. Maybe he’ll just watch cat videos all day.

He doesn’t hear the front door open.

He does, however, hear the unfamiliar female voice carrying loudly and clearly through the apartment, just not early enough to react. “Stevie, honey, are you home? I brought you break- oh my!” The woman gasps as she rounds the corner to the kitchen, nearly dropping the take-out bag she was rifling through in her surprise.

Bucky meeps, high-pitched and pathetic, like a tiny kitten, and tries to cover up his naked torso. Unfortunately, the coffee cup does not provide much cover. Fortunately, he avoids spilling the hot liquid over himself, if only barely.

They stare at each other for a beat, frozen in shock.

She is the first to recover, probably because unlike Bucky, she’s not trying to suppress a whimper and wishing the ground would open up and swallow her whole.  She might be uncomfortable, but at least she’s not mortified that she’s practically flashing her pretend boyfriend’s mother. There’s really no doubt that that’s who she is; she’s tiny and blonde and blue-eyed, her eyebrows drawn together in a way that suggests a no-nonsense attitude. The look on her face says that she’s seen some shit and she’s fully prepared to deal with anything life throws at her, up to and including strange, half naked men in places she was not expecting them. Bucky vaguely remembers Steve mentioning that his mother is a nurse, so yes, she’s probably seen worse, and is probably also prepared to knock him over the head.

“Well,” she says, “you are obviously not my son.”

“No, ma’am,” he manages weakly. “I’m the…uh, the boyfriend?” That probably shouldn’t have come out as a question, Bucky thinks. He doesn’t know why he says it. If she doesn’t know, if Steve hasn’t told her and wasn’t planning on doing so, he could’ve just feigned to be a one-night stand, but for some reason, he wants her to know he’s not just some creepy guy randomly sitting in her son’s home half-naked.

She nods, like it’s not new information. “And you wouldn’t happen to know where he’s run off to?”

“Morning run.” He clears his throat. “I’m, uh, I’m gonna, ah - clothes?” he says and flees into Steve’s room. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” he chants under his breath as he pulls on his clothes and shoots off a quick **_!!!!S.O.S._ ** to Steve. It’s unlikely Steve will see it, but he’s freaking out and he feels like screaming, and that’s the closest he can get.

He runs through his options. He could stay and hide out in the room, but it’s impractical. Steve’s mother knows she can find him, here. He can’t go out the window - Steve’s room doesn’t have the same convenient access to the fire escape that Bucky’s has. He could leave through the front door, just say that he has an appointment or something and get the hell out of here, but - no, that’d be terribly rude. He’s supposed to be Steve’s _boyfriend;_ what kind of impression would it make if he just fled? Sure, they agreed to not get their families involved in this scheme - Bucky hasn’t even told his family he’s ‘dating’, because they’d definitely want to meet Steve - and it’d be early to be meeting the parents even if they were dating for real but - but.

He can’t leave, not without looking like a total dickhead.

“Fuck,” he curses once more for good measure.

He’s so not prepared for this.

Bucky runs his hands through his hair for a couple of times until it looks vaguely acceptable, takes a deep breath, and goes to face the music. “Mrs. Rogers?” he asks tentatively, rubbing his palms on his jeans. They’re sweaty; he hasn’t met any of his partners’ parents since high school. He had forgotten how terrifying it could be. “I am so sorry, I didn’t know you were coming, I would’ve never-”

“Oh boy, “ she says. “Take a deep breath, you look like you’re about to have a panic attack.”

“That’s possible,” he admits.

“Have a seat,” she says.Her voice is kind but leaves no room for arguments, so Bucky sinks into the nearest chair. “So, you’re the young man who’s been monopolising all of my son’s time.”

Bucky blinks. Has he been doing that? He has no idea. “Bucky Barnes, ma’am,” he says for lack of a better answer. His mother’s voice inside his head yells at him to add “pleasure to meet you”, as if it wouldn’t sound wooden and fake. Instead, he bursts out with, “Really, I want to apologise, I am _so_ sorry!”

“Oh honey, don’t worry about it.” She waves him off. “Trust me, this is not the worst way I’ve found out my son is dating someone.”

“Wow, you must have some horror stories,” he blurts out.

Mrs. Rogers studies him. “I’m sure Steve will tell you.”

“Yeah. I guess now you have one more to add to the repertoire.” He grimaces. “Hopefully it’ll be the last one.”

“I suppose I’ll learn not to use my keys without checking in with him first when I drop by,” she says with a smile. “It’s just that usually when I come by after finishing the night shift he’s already back from his run, but then I don’t usually come by without telling him first. I did ring the bell and just assumed he was in the shower when he didn’t answer, or that no one was home.”

“I didn’t hear the bell. I’m not….great at early mornings,” Bucky confesses. He clears his throat. “Can I offer you some coffee, Mrs. Rogers? Or something non-caffeinated if you have to sleep later? Tea, maybe?” He pauses. “I don’t actually know if Steve has any tea.”

She laughs, taking pity on him. “We can look for some together.”

When Steve returns about half an hour later, he finds them hunched over their respective mugs, laughing. He freezes on the spot. “Mom?” he asks, sounding panicked. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to surprise you,” she says. “I got the bigger surprise in return.”

Steve’s eyes swivel to Bucky immediately. “Please tell me you weren’t naked.”

“Hey!” Bucky says, affronted. It’s not like he runs around half naked all the time.

HIs mother snickers. “Only a little.”

“Oh dear God.”

“Sit down, Stevie. Bucky made pancakes. They’re fantastic!”

“Thanks, Sarah.”

Steve stares at them as if they’re aliens. “I’m gonna need a minute with Bucky,” he announces, and drags Bucky away without waiting for either’s approval. “What the fuck?” he says.

“What?” Bucky asks.

“What?” Steve repeats hysterically. “‘What’ is what you decide to go with? What are you _doing_?”

“Having breakfast with your mom?”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Jesus, Steve, what’d you expect me to do, take off immediately and run to my apartment in my underwear?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Steve mutters. “You couldn’t have warned me, at least?”

“I sent you a text, but some genius decided to leave his phone at home when he went out. How did you want me to contact you, smoke signals? War drums?”

“That’s -” Steve deflates suddenly. “Bucky, that’s my _mom_.”

“ _I know_ ,” Bucky hisses. “Jesus, do I ever.”

“You can’t - when we stop this, she’s gonna be so…” he trails off again. “Fuck!”

“I’ll tone it down,” Bucky says quietly. “It’s not like I really need to charm her. I can make it so she’ll say good riddance.”

Steve huffs out a laugh. “Too late. She’s already offered you to call her by her first name.  That means you’ve already thoroughly charmed her. She doesn’t change her opinion of people easily; she’s good at reading people. I’m not surprised she likes you.”

Bucky is, but he’s not about to say that out loud. “She wouldn’t if I acted like a slimy doucheball. If she thought I didn’t treat you right.”

“No.” Steve shakes his head. “I don’t want you to do that.”

“We could tell her,” Bucky says tentatively. “Maybe she’ll find it hilarious.”

“Her finding out about this and knowing I’m  - no, no, that’d be worse.” Steve looks like he wants to throw up.

“Okay,” Bucky says, takes a deep breath, and decides he has to get his shit together if he wants to keep both of them afloat, because Steve won’t be any help like this. “In that case, honeybunch, pucker up. I’m giving you five minutes in the shower to wash off the stink and get your game face on. I’m gonna go back out there before your mom thinks you dragged me in here for a quickie.”

Steve’s expression goes from nauseated to, well, still nauseated but mostly horrified and outraged, less like he’s two seconds away from throwing up in panic. “You - God, I hate you.”

“Nah, you love me, remember?”

“You make me so angry.”

“I only said, like, ten words,” Bucky protests.

“Yet here I am, seething with rage.”

“All back to normal, then.” He gives Steve a clap on the back. “Good. Five minutes,” he reminds him on his way out.

He stays until Steve finishes his shower, and then he gets invited to stay for breakfast, which is apparently a tradition in the Rogers household, always on the morning after Sarah’s last night shift, and when he walks home later, he has a new phone number programmed into his phone along with a stern reminder to use it if he ever needs anything, and to come by for dinner some time. It burns through his pocket, sits like a heavy weight in his chest. He thinks he knows what Steve felt like earlier, close to dry heaving until he can expel all the guilt.

Steve calls him later that night, after a long day that wasn’t half as relaxing and gloriously unproductive as he’d planned it. “So,” he says quietly, “my mom loves you.”

Bucky swallows hard. He kind of wants to apologise. He kind of feels relieved, and then feels bad about it. “She’s great,” he says truthfully.

“Yeah. She’s the best.”

“As a good momma’s boy, I feel compelled to say, no way, _my_ mom is the best. But she comes in a very close second,” Bucky jokes weakly.

Steve chortles. “Yeah,” he says, before falling silent again.

Bucky doesn’t know how to breach the ensuing silence between them. He doesn’t know why it’s always so hard to get past the space between them. He doesn’t know why he even wants to. “I could tell my family,” he offers. “You wouldn’t have to meet them, they’re all back in Indiana, just to...make things even.”

“Are they gonna get their hopes up?” Steve asks.

“Probably, yeah.”

“Then don’t. You don’t - Jesus, Bucky, don’t make them feel disappointed in an attempt to make me feel better. They don’t deserve that.”

“No, they don’t,” Bucky agrees. “Neither does your mom.”

“This is getting much bigger than I anticipated.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and waits for Steve to say the word, to say they gotta blow it off now, or at least quick, before the impact radius of their stupidity gets any worse. But Steve doesn’t say anything else. “You okay?” he asks eventually.

Steve takes a deep breath. “I will be. You?”

“Sure,” he says offhandedly. “For the record,” he adds, “my parents would love you. You’re just the right amount of crazy that they’d want to adopt you immediately.”

There’s a pause. “Thanks, I think.”

“Anytime,” he says, and they don’t say anything else, but neither of them hangs up. They just stay on the line for a long time, listening to each other breathe.

**∞**

It's already dark outside when Bucky finally clicks the save button and stretches his back with a relieved sigh. He frowns at the window - this happens sometimes when he's working, he gets into a zone and forgets the world around him, forgets to eat and drink and doesn't realise how much time has passed, but it shouldn't have happened today. It's Thursday and that means Steve is coming over, and someone ringing the doorbell and/or entering his apartment isn't something he could miss. He pokes his head into the living room, finding it worryingly devoid of any Steve-shaped lump on the couch.

He's about to shrug it off - Steve probably texted to say he couldn't make it; he's reliable and conscientious like that - when his phone rings.

There are only two people who still actually call him on his phone: his mother, because she's never gotten the hang of texting. She also insists communication is better with the added layer of hearing the other person's voice to cover up for her complete inability to understand modern technology. Natasha calls when she's feeling snoopy. It's way too late for his mother to call, and Natasha is at a conference out of town, so she should be too busy to bother him.

That means that whatever it is, it must be an emergency.

Bucky swears and sprints back into his bedroom, shoving away books and papers until he unearths his phone from the battlefield that is his desk. The caller-ID says _Steve_ , and Bucky's heart sinks in his chest.

"Yes?" he asks, trying to be cool but his frantic breathing probably gives him away.

"Hey Buck," the familiar deep voice sounds over the line, and Bucky sags in relief. Steve sounds fine - slightly embarrassed, maybe, but not like he's in pain or worried.

"You okay?" Bucky can't stop himself from asking.

"Fine, just, uh," Steve hedges, "I could use a favour?"

"Anything," Bucky says immediately, and winces, because that is way more honest than he usually allows himself to get. "Whatcha need, pal?"

"Could you, um, could you come pick me and Sam up?"

"What, you two get too sauced to make it home on your own?" Bucky jokes, despite Steve sounding way too sober for that to be true. He's already stepping into his shoes.

"No, just....well."

"I'mma need a bit more info than that, buddy. Where are you?"

Steve tells him, reluctantly, and Bucky groans and rests his head against the wall for a minute because of course. Of course.

"I'll be there in twenty," he says and hangs up before he does something ridiculous, like actually bashing his head against the wall in frustration because his fake boyfriend is a reckless dumbass.

"You're a dumbass," Bucky informs Steve flatly exactly twenty-seven minutes later, standing in the middle of the Ninety-Ninth precinct, giving the stink-eye to a very sheepish looking Steve while he gathers his stuff, a huge shiner blooming around his left eye.

"I -" Steve starts.

"Nope," Bucky says. "Don't wanna hear it. Reckless fucking idiots who got themselves arrested for the fourth time in two years have to zip it until I no longer feel like clocking them on the head."

"It wasn't my fault," Steve protests hotly.

Bucky stares at him incredulously.

Steve wilts. "Okay, maybe it was a little my fault," he amends.

"You're impossible." Bucky throws his hands up. "I can't believe you called _me_ the troublemaker of the two of us, you giant fucking hypocrite."

Sam chortles in the background, unsuccessfully trying to hide his laughter behind an extremely unconvincing cough. Bucky glares at him too, for good measure, but only a little, because to be fair, he had mostly been involved and taken to the station because he tried - and failed - to keep Steve out of a fight. It's not really his fault Steve has a latent inability to solve conflicts without punching them in the face.

Steve rolls his eyes. "You're really overstating the severity of this, Buck. Also, stop being dramatic."

"Pot, kettle, buddy."

"I know you're not really upset that I got arrested."

"Kinda am," Bucky says. "I'll be happy about the fact that you will never be able to give me any shit about getting into trouble ever again once I stop being upset about you getting your face busted."

"It's nothing, Bucky."

"I'm taking you home and putting ice on that, and you do not get to brush me off," Bucky says, leaving absolutely no room for arguments.

"You're not my mother," Steve says petulantly.

"I don't know, he's kind of going full momma bear here," Sam laughs.

"Gross, Sam," Bucky grimaces, then turns back to Steve. "You, stop complaining or I _will_ call your mother. I've got her number, and she loves me, and she'd be majorly disappointed in you."

Steve blanches, and smartly shuts his mouth.

"That's right," Bucky grumbles. "I can't believe I'm bailing you out for fighting. If you gotta get arrested, it should at least be for fun things, but _no, getting arrested for public indecency is completely out of the question, Bucky, we can't get it on in public, Bucky, you can't suck my dick in the bathroom, Bucky, what if we get_ arrested _?"_ he whines, high-pitched, He thinks he's doing a fairly decent impression of Steve.

Sam chokes. Steve buries his head in his hands. The police officer collecting the rest of the paperwork looks more amused than alarmed.

"As a police officer, I feel compelled to advise you to not engage in sexual activities in public spaces," she says, a wicked smile on her face, and then drops her voice to an almost-whisper. "As your friend, I have to tell you it'd be hilarious if you got arrested with your dick out."

Bucky feels his eyes bug a little because _what the hell?_

"Thanks for throwing me under the bus, Peggy," Steve says sourly.

"Anytime, sweetheart." The police woman - Peggy, apparently - winks.

"Wait, you are on first name basis with the police?" Bucky asks.

Peggy snorts. "Of course. He's been here so often, he knows everyone here quite well. He's practically a part of the team at this point, except for when he's on the wrong side of the law."

"You punch people more often than I do," Steve mutters.

"Unlike you, darling, sometimes I'm allowed to," she retorts. "Should've joined the force instead, then maybe you wouldn't get into so much trouble."

Their bickering is the familiar, worn-out kind that flows smoothly back and forth, perfected through habit and time, a little too flirty to be based on just friendship. Bucky feels suddenly, inexplicably jealous. "So," he interrupts them, "you've known Stevie here long?"

Peggy smiles at him like she knows exactly what he's thinking. "I first arrested him about three, three and a half years ago when he got into a...let's call it a heated argument with a man of rather conservative views at a slut walk. That was the start of a fiery but short affair. Our relationship may not have lasted long, but our friendship did."

Yep, Peggy knows exactly what he's thinking. Luckily, she continues talking before he can do  something awful and petty, like telling her that Steve doesn’t talk about her. It would be true, but also a really low blow. He remembers Steve mentioning her name, once. The name’s been burnt into his brain; the one person Steve loved and who loved him in return and might’ve actually deserved him. It’d made him both infinitely curious and reluctant to ask about her at the same time, an inexplicable knot of dread twisting in his stomach for fear of what he’d find, what Steve might say, if he’d gotten an answer at all. Steve seemed as loath to be asked about past relationship as Bucky felt to ask. Which was fine. After all, it's not like Steve owes him anything, like Bucky has any right to know anything about his relationship history at all.

"I was getting quite fed up waiting for him to introduce us," Peggy says. "That's why I made him call you to come pick Sam and him up."

"Wait," says Bucky. "I don't actually have to pay bail to get him out?"

"No. The other guy isn't pressing charges, so he's free to go. But I like busting his balls, and I wanted to meet the infamous boyfriend, so it was killing two birds with one stone. How could I resist?"

"Peggy!"

Bucky grins despite himself, the initial spike of reservation and aversion he’d felt against her sizzling out. The thought of her and Steve having dated still makes him feel queasy and unsure, but Bucky quickly and violently stamps down on that part of himself. Peggy has done nothing to warrant his animosity; on the contrary. She's clearly brilliant and just as devious as Natasha, and Steve loved her. Bucky thinks they could be friends, if he could get the fuck over himself. “I think I like you,” he decides.

Peggy returns his grin. "Why, I think I like you too. Although I'd like you more if you did manage to get him arrested for lewd behaviour."

" _Peggy_!"

At this point, Steve is blushing deeper than a traffic light. Peggy just pats him on the shoulder in mock consolation. "Obviously, I'd really prefer you didn't get arrested at all anymore, but knowing it's inevitable, I have to say that as much as I admire your quest to better the world and wouldn't want you to change, it would make me really happy to see you happy. So yes, next time I see you in here it better be because Bucky sexed you up."

"I'll do my best," Bucky promises.

"I'm sure you will."

"He absolutely will not," Steve says.

"He definitely will," Sam supplies.

Bucky has the sinking feeling that if he doesn't end this thread of conversation now, it'll end in a childish "am not - are too" style argument that he would totally be not above seeing through to the very end, but that he doesn't have the energy for right now. "Come on, babe," he sighs, poking Steve in the shoulder. "You got all your stuff? I wanna go home and put ice on your eye and then crash for the next ten to twelve hours so I have just enough time and working brain cells to edit my paper before the deadline tomorrow."

Steve looks instantly chagrined. "Shit, I forgot you had to finish that today. I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have called you away from work for this."

"Don't be stupid, Steve," Bucky says. "Of course I was gonna come bail you out of jail, even if I wasn't already finished."

It's what fake boyfriends have to do for each other because it's what real boyfriends would do. Real boyfriends, Bucky thinks, would probably also kiss their significant other at this point, so he curls one hand into Steve's shirt and tugs him forward to plant a solid one on him. Steve makes a surprised noise against his mouth, but then his lips open under Bucky's, and Bucky knows he shouldn't, but the temptation to sneak in some tongue is just too great to resist, despite Peggy watching - actually, probably _because_ Peggy's watching, because Peggy may be brilliant and Bucky might like her, but he's still a bit of an asshole with a point to make. Or at least it's a point that he would be having to make if he was Steve's actual, real-life boyfriend.

Amazingly, Steve doesn't pull away immediately, and the kiss is just on the verge of turning too heated for their audience when Sam clears his throat pointedly.

Bucky takes a step back but leaves his fingers twisted in the fabric of Steve's shirt. "Your stuff?"

"Right," says Steve, slightly dazed. "Yeah, I got it."

"Clearly, Bucky's got it, too," Peggy quips. "You're halfway to public indecency already."

Bucky's about to respond in kind when he hears someone behind him grumble about 'those goddamn homos'.

Steve stiffens under his hand, and Bucky knows that twitch in his jaw, the telltale sign of Steve on the warpath of justice, and this cannot be happening right not. He tugs on his shirt, hard. "If you start a fight in a police station, so help me God, Steve, I will kill you myself," he hisses.

"Buck, I can't just-"

"Yes you can, and you will," Peggy snaps. "Bucky, Sam, get him home. I'll deal with this delightful individual."

The ride home is muted, all the good mood dissipated in a second. Steve steams in silent anger; beside him, even Sam is looking grim. Not even the fact that he and Steve hold hands all the way from the police station to when they say goodbye to Sam in front of Bucky's place can cheer Bucky up.

Steve trails into the kitchen behind Bucky, hovering as Bucky takes out the first aid kit from under the sink and digs around the freezer for a pack of frozen peas. "I could've just gone with Sam," he says quietly.

Bucky doesn't bother explaining that Sam would definitely get suspicious if he pawned off his hurt boyfriend to his friend. "Steve, sit your ass down."

Steve complies, holding the bag of frozen peas against his swollen eye while Bucky kneels in front of him and devotes himself to the task of delicately cleaning his bloodied knuckles. Steve is rigid but Bucky doesn't think it's the burn of the peroxide. He can't tell whether he's still wound up from his earlier fight or angry at Bucky for what happened in the precinct. "So," he asks conversationally, "wanna tell me what the fight was about?" If nothing else, it might get Steve to blow up in his face and release some steam.

"Not really, no."

Bucky nods slowly. "Okay."

"Okay?" Steve repeats, blinking.

"Yep."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"I figured you'd nag me until I talked. That’s usually your M.O.."

He sighs. "Not really in the mood for it, buddy."

"Right." If Bucky didn't know better, he'd say Steve looks almost dejected at Bucky's lack of badgering. Which is ridiculous. "I'm - I should go."

"Wait, what?" Bucky is thrown by the sudden turn of conversation. He sits back on his haunches. "No, you absolutely shouldn't."

"You're tired, Buck. Just go to bed, get some sleep. You don't gotta fuss over me."

"You don't think Sam is gonna be a little surprised when you suddenly show up at your apartment?" Bucky asks, attempting to keep his voice even.

"I can just tell him we had a fight," Steve explains tiredly, "You're angry at me. It wouldn't even be a lie. And I've already made you deal with enough of my shit today, when you didn't have to."

"Kinda did." Bucky shrugs.

It's only because he's watching Steve so closely that he catches his minor wince, the grimace that flits over his face before he smoothes his features back into a carefully controlled mask. When he speaks up again, his voice is calm and even. "I don't think that kind of thing was included in our deal."

Slowly, Bucky is starting to see where this is going. "Hey," he says, gently nudging Steve's knee. It's a bit of a shot in the dark, but he trusts his gut when it comes to Steve. "We're friends, yeah?"

Steve blinks, startled. "Yeah," he says after a beat of silence. "Yeah, of course we are, Buck."

"Then putting up with each other's shit is part of the deal. That's what friends do, idiot." He kicks Steve lightly in the shin. Steve grins a little, and kicks back to let Bucky know they're okay. "And just for the record, I'm not mad at you. I'm angry you got hurt, and maybe tomorrow when I'm more awake I'll yell at you some more for being reckless but...I know why you do it. I get it. Just, as tempting as it is, you can't punch every asshole in the world in the face, you know?" He rests his hand on Steve's knee, squeezing slightly, both a reassurance and an emphasis of his point. "You can't save the entire world on your own, Steve. It ain't your job, either."

Steve gives him a lopsided smile, self-deprecating and stunningly beautiful as always. "Gotta try, though."

"You wouldn't be you if you didn't." Bucky gets up, holds out his hand and pulls Steve to his feet. "Come on, bedtime."

"I'll get the blankets."

Bucky pauses. "Stevie, you're not sleeping on the couch. Injured people don't sleep on the lumpy couch."

"It's a black eye and some bruised knuckles, Buck, I'm not dying." Steve says, rolling his eyes. "I'm not exiling you to the couch in your own apartment."

"I wasn't planning on giving up the bed."

Steve stills.

"What, you suddenly going shy on me?" Bucky asks. "We share a bed every time I stay over at your and Sam's place." To be fair, they are only doing that because it would raise some obvious red flags if they didn't share a bed where Sam was bound to notice. It's nice, though. Bucky had almost forgotten that he sleeps better with someone near him. "Just make sure to kick me out of bed by nine, otherwise I might just be tempted to destroy my alarm clock and turn around in bed, and then I won't have time to edit my paper."

The excuse is whimsy as fuck and he knows it, and Steve knows it too, but he accepts with a nod. "Okay. Try not to elbow me in the face this time."

"Then don't try to steal my blankets," Bucky retorts and shoulders Steve out of the way, because this is his home and that means he gets bathroom privileges.

**∞**

“What’re you doing for Halloween?”

“Hm?” Steve hums questioningly, looking up from his sketch. He’s got three differently sized pencils stuck between his lips, because apparently that’s easier than sitting them aside on the table and picking them up when needed. From what Bucky can see, they’re organised by size so that Steve doesn’t have to double check whenever he changing them; he just tugs them out without looking. It’s kind of impressive and a little ridiculous. They’re bopping up and down with the inquisitive sound he makes, and Bucky has to stifle a laugh.

“Halloween,” he repeats patiently. He knows by now it takes a while for Steve’s brain to catch up with the real world when he is concentrated on drawing. “Plans?”

“Hng hmm hmmpfmm-” Steve starts, then stops, frowning, apparently only now remembering that his speaking might be hindered by the pencils in his mouth. He pulls them out of from between his lips, looking a tad annoyed at having to do so. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t really go to Halloween parties that often.”

“Well, Natasha is throwing a party, if you wanna go,” Bucky says. “Fancy dress is obligatory, of course.”

“Of course,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, okay, why not.”

“Cool, I’ll tell her we’re in.” Bucky shoots off a quick text. “Any idea what costume you wanna wear yet?”

Steve grimaces like the very thought of it pains him. “Not a clue. Can’t I just show up in a suit and call it a day? I could pretend to be James Bond or something.”

“If you’re gonna be Bond, you’d better at least get a tux and some fake weapons. Natasha doesn’t appreciate slackers.”

“Ugh.”

“We could do couple costumes,” Bucky suggests casually. “They’d eat that up.”

“I’m not doing Brokeback Mountain with you,” Steve shoots back immediately.

“Uh, okay?” Bucky says, confused. “You don’t have a thing for sexy cowboys?”

“Not really, but mostly not for tragic cliché gay love stories. Also, I’m ruling out any offensive or appropriative costumes.”

“What a shocker,” Bucky comments dryly, maybe a little more pissed off than Steve’s comment warrants. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t planning on showing up dressed as a Native American. I knew that was offensive even before you dragged me to social justice rallies.”

Steve grins a little, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Now who’s easy to rile up?” he asks.

“I swear to God, you punk-”

“Hey, there’s an idea,” Steve says. “I don’t think any of my clothes from my punk days fit me anymore, but I could scrounge something up from some people I know. You could go as a goth, you got the hair for it.”

“You don’t stop sassing me, you can go as a punk and I’ll go as the police officer arresting you,” Bucky threatens. “That’s more realistic.”

Steve snorts. “You’re just dreaming of using those handcuffs.”

Bucky’s mouth is suddenly dry with the image. “You need a gag more than you need to be handcuffed,” he says, the quip only just coming in time to ensure the pause doesn’t get too long and awkward. He shifts on the couch to hide the fact that the imagery is kind of doing it for him, and throws a wadded up tissues in Steve’s direction as an additional distraction. “I’m serious, though. Do you have any actual, helpful suggestions?”

“I still maintain Bond should be an option.”

“And I’d go as what, your bond girl?” Bucky shakes his head. “Not happening.”

“Well, what did you have in mind, then?”

“Right now I have a mind to force you to recreate that stupid look of Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears in all-denim, just to make you suffer.”

Steve bursts out laughing. “You realise you’d have to suffer, too, right?”

“I could pull off all-denim,” Bucky says haughtily.

“No, you really couldn’t,” Steve says. “Justin Timberlake couldn’t. Certainly not back then, and let’s be real, he wouldn’t be able to pull it off now either despite being much hotter. No one can pull off all-denim. It’s an abomination unto God, and you’d never be caught wearing something that ugly in public.”

“I might, if it’s for a laugh.”

“Well, I’m still vetoing it. I’m making an executive decision here that there will be no denim involved in our costumes that goes beyond wearing jeans.”

“Fine,” Bucky huffs, pretending to be put-out. “But we could do something that’s, like, a famous couple in a movie or something.”

“Most iconic couples are straight,” Steve points out.

“So? We’ll make something work. It wouldn’t have to be a canon couple. We could do, like, Lord of the Rings or something.”

“What, I’d be Legolas and you’d be Gimli?” Steve asks, grinning.

Bucky flips him off. “Fuck you, I’d be Aragorn for sure.”

“Uh-huh,” Steve says. “Personally, I’d say Gimli’s personality fits you a lot more. You’re grumpy, and tiny-”

“I’m _two inches shorter than you_!” Bucky says, outraged.

“- and we have that relationship that went from hating each other to being friends.”

Bucky has to concede to the last point. Everything else, though - no. “I’ll think of something better,” he promises, and spends the next two days wracking his brain until he comes up with something genius.

 **_I got it_ ** , he texts Steve. **_Star Wars_ **.

 _Who’s who?_ Steve texts back.

**_Obviously I’m Han and you’re Leia._ **

_Why is that obvious?_

**_U’d look better in the bikini._ **

There’s a pause, like Steve doesn’t know how to respond to that.

 **_You’ve got the legs for it_ ** _,_ Bucky adds, because he’s a bit of an asshole, but also because it’s true.

 _Remind me to strangle you when I see you next_ , is the answer that comes eventually.

**_??? Why_ **

Steve just sends back a selfie, looking distinctly unimpressed.

 **_Fine_ ** , Bucky types in response. **_We can do Luke and Han instead. There’s enough homoerotic tension for it to count, right?_ **

_Fine. I’m Han though._ Steve replies, which is just outrageous. He’s definitely only doing that to piss Bucky off now. Bucky is clearly more like Han Solo, and Steve would definitely be Luke. He’d be the hero in any story ever written, and Bucky would be the nerdy, pretending to be suave but at least loyal, sidekick.

Steve wants to be Han? Fine. Bucky’s gonna show him, though.

Thankfully, Natasha only laughs at him a little when he enlists her help, agreeing to get him what he needs immediately. Mostly, he thinks, judging by the dangerous glint in her eye, it’s not for his benefit but her own amusement, but that’s alright with him.

Steve texts him a photo of himself in costume a couple of days before the party. _Is that dedicated enough for your and Natasha’s delicate sensibilities?_ he asks. Bucky can practically hear the sarcasm.

 **_We have high standards, unlike some people_ ** , he replies haughtily.

_Your standards are usually as high as a baby Bonsai._

**_Steve, we talked about this. Stop putting yourself down. You’re higher than a baby Bonsai. You’re a fully grown golden barrel cactus, at least._ **

_I had to google that,_ Steve sends back. _Why the fuck do you know names and sizes of cacti?_

**_It was cactus of the year a while back._ **

_That does not answer my question in the slightest._

Bucky is not going to admit that he googled cacti on a whim, after a stray thought that Steve kind of reminded him of the prickly plants, and that he read up on them for several hours. Or that he considered getting one so that he’d have a reminder of Steve in his apartment, telling himself that it was mostly because a cactus was the only kind of plant he was unlikely to kill through neglect. **_Relax, I could’ve compared you to a silver torch cactus_ ** , he texts instead.

There’s a slight pause as Steve presumably googles those as well. Bucky cackles when Steve’s answer comes, a barrage of texts pouring in in quick succession.

_Oh God_

_Why did you make me look at those wtf!!!!_

_They look like giant furry silver penises with a bunch of angry red penises attached to them!!_

_Why_

Bucky can practically see his appalled expression through his text. It’s fantastic. **_I didn’t make you do anything_** , he reminds Steve.

_Please don’t say I remind you of those monstrosities_

**_You were being a dick_ ** , Bucky texts back. **_If the shoe fits…_**

 _I hate you,_ Steve replies. _Do I pass muster or not._

 **_You’ll do_ ** , Bucky decides. Truth be told, Steve makes quite a good Han Solo, which he hadn’t really been prepared for; he’d expected him to look good, yes, because Steve would look good in a brown paper bag, but he hadn’t anticipated how much seeing Steve dressed up as his childhood hero would make his stomach flip.

_Wow. Such high praise._

**_Shut up._ **

_What about you?_ Steve asks. _Don’t I get to approve your costume?_

 **_Not quite done yet_** , Bucky lies.

_It’s in two days!!!_

**_Calm your tits, Rogers, it’ll be ready by then. Scout’s honour._ **

_Boy scouts are fucking terrible. Bunch of homophobic pricks._

**_Obviously I was referring to the Girl Scouts. They’re kickass._ **

_I’ll allow it._

**_How gracious of you_ **.

 _Indeed_ , Steve replies. _Also, if you make me dress up and then flunk out on me I’ll kick your ass._

Steve wants to make plans to meet up at Bucky’s beforehand and then head to the party together. Bucky flounders for a while until Natasha conveniently asks for help setting up everything, which Steve, gentleman that he is, agrees to do, whereas Bucky begs off, citing coursework and having to put the finishing touches on his costume. The first is a complete lie, the latter….well, he was lying when he said his costume wasn’t finished, but as it turns out, he underestimated the amount of time and body contortions it took to get into the costume without anyone’s help.

Also, he realises as he walks from the subway station to Natasha’s front door, burrowing deeper into his long coat, it’s not fucking appropriate for the weather they’re having. He’s going to freeze his balls off at this rate.

It’s totally worth it, though, when Steve stalks towards him the moment he steps into the apartment, expression pinched. “You’re late,” he hisses. “Like, seriously late.”

“Relax, I’m here now. I didn’t have a Millennium Falcon to get here quickly.”

“Neither did I, jackass, but I’ve been here listening to Natasha making innuendos and laughing at me for three hours and I don’t know why - what is that under your arms?” he trails off, frowning.

Bucky looks down. “Oh, that?” he says, shaking the plush he’d tucked under his elbow, bound to his wrist with a string. “It’s my personal Jabba the Hutt corpse that I’m dragging around.” It was a last minute addition to his costume that he’s actually quite proud of. He’s even glued black Xs over the eyes. It looks cute, if you ask him.

“Why would you need a corpse of Jabba the Hutt-”

Bucky shrugs out of his coat. Steve chokes on his spit. It’s amazingly gratifying, as is the shade of red he’s flushing. He hadn’t gotten that red in the face when he’d yelled at Bucky for five minutes straight. It’s _glorious._

Bucky thumps his back a few times, a bit too hard to be innocent, and Steve glares at him once he regains his breath. “You said you’d dress as Luke,” he accuses, his voice at least half an octave higher than normal.

“Too boring.” Bucky shrugs. “I changed my mind.”

“I can see that,” Steve says, strangled, before he hides his face behind his hands. Bucky bites his lip to hide his grin.

Natasha and Clint choose that moment to come over. “Bucky!” she exclaims. “You made it.”

Clint just wolf whistles. “Wow, bro.”

“Hi, Tasha.” He gives her a quick hug, bumping Clint’s fist with his own over her shoulder. “Sorry for the delay, I didn’t realise bikini tops are such a bitch to close behind your back.”

Natasha scoffs. “Weak,” she says.

“Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t usually need to wear bras. _Steve_ is the one with a bigger rack than half the girls I’ve slept with, not me. I’ve been trying to convince him to wear a sports bra when he goes running, because seriously, it’s indecent. I can’t really compete with him in the cleavage department, not even with his thing pushing everything up under my chin.”

“I am going to murder you,” Steve says darkly. He still hasn’t removed the hand from his eyes.

Natasha cackles. “Well, you make the costume work, anyway. Don’t you think, Steve?”

“I got the legs for it, too,” Bucky says, throwing an obnoxious wink at Steve.

“I need a drink,” Steve announces, pivoting around and hurrying into the kitchen.

“Get a beer for me!” Bucky yells after him, ignoring the way Steve subtly flips him off in favour of tugging at the fabric of the - well, you could probably only call it a skirt if you were feeling particularly favourable, what with the long slits on either side that are basically showing off his entire legs. He’d used the adhesive tape Natasha had lent him to try and secure the costume in some places so at least his butt wouldn’t be hanging out, and technically he knows his junk is covered just fine, and also he looks phenomenal, but he’s feeling weirdly self-conscious now that he feels all the eyes in the room on him. “God, how do you wear mini skirts without worrying about flashing someone every five seconds?” he asks Natasha.

“My vagina doesn’t take up as much space as your penis,” Natasha says drily. “That helps.”

“That  comment doesn’t,” Bucky fires back.

“If it’s any consolation, Steve definitely wants to bend you over the nearest surface,” Clint says.

“Not gently, though,” Natasha remarks. “He seems pretty pissed off. I’m surprised he appreciated the outfit so little.”

Bucky grins. “He’s not a fan of awkward semis in public, and even less so of my ongoing quest to give them to him.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so angry at themselves for enjoying a view,” Clint muses. “I sense angry make-up sex in your imminent future.”

Natasha snorts. “That’s an understatement. If you can still walk tomorrow, I’ll be surprised.”

 _God, I wish_ , Bucky thinks, stupidly, as he laughs with his friends, and immediately chases the thought away.

Steve’s reaction is a consolation, though, even when Steve doesn’t bring him a drink and manages to avoid him for a good hour, during which Bucky has to fend off the unwanted advances of at least three very drunk and very interested party goers, one of whom won’t even take the hint when he says, _thanks but no thanks, he’s very flattered but also he’s here with his boyfriend, do they see the Adonis in the Han Solo get-up over there? Yeah, that’s right, that’s him, and no, he definitely isn’t into sharing._

He stumbles over to where Steve is standing and chatting with Clint, after that. It’s more difficult than it should be to walk in a straight line; he _may_ have had a few too many shots too quickly, because Steve refused to look at him whenever he could, and other people were being gross. He collapses against Steve’s side with a groan. Steve, to his credit, immediately wraps an arm around his waist to keep him upright, despite being obviously pissed with him.

“I’m starting to feel like the only girl in the middle of a party overrun by very straight, very drunk and very horny frat bros,” he complains.

Steve straightens immediately. “Who?” he asks, head swivelling around like he could spot the culprit just by glaring everyone into submission.

“Stop, it’s fine.  I’m good.”

“Used to be you revelled in being centre of attention,” Clint jokes.

“Used to be I was a single man receptive to people’s advances,” Bucky grumbles. “But even then some people couldn’t take a hint. I suppose I thought it’d be easier when my boyfriend was literally standing fifteen feet away from me.”

“People shouldn’t be harassing you, whether you have a boyfriend or not,” Steve says. “They should respect-”

“My knight in shining armour,” Bucky says, then adds, “ _please_ don’t punch anyone tonight. Natasha will kill you if anyone bleeds on her carpet.” He burrows deeper into Steve’s side; someone has opened the window to the fire escape to go out and smoke, and the draft is making him shiver. Luckily, Steve’s giving off heat like a goddamn radiator, and he’s a good wind screen on top of that.

Wordlessly, Steve shrugs out of his blue vest and drapes it over Bucky’s shoulders before wrapping himself more securely around Bucky. Bucky might swoon a little, he’s not sure. It might just be the alcohol.

“Just so you know, I’m still planning on murdering you slowly and painfully,” Steve murmurs in his ear, just loud enough that Bucky can hear it over the music.

“Oh Stevie, baby,” Bucky leers, raising his voice considerably, making it throaty and needy, “please, tell me _exactly_ what you want to do to me later.”

“Wow, okay, I’m out,” Clint says, raising his hands. “I’ll leave you two alone for a minute.”

Steve looks like he just swallowed a lemon while Bucky snickers. “Stop enjoying that!” he hisses.

“Never.” He pauses. “Sorry, actually. Too much?”

Steve sighs. “It’s fine.”

“No, really, I can stop draping myself all over you. I know I shouldn’t do that.”

“Actually, I think you should. In fact, you should probably drape yourself all over me a bit more enthusiastically.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m serious.”

Bucky blinks, confused. “Wait, what?”

Steve nods his head subtly towards the far corner of the room, where the guy Bucky was talking to earlier is still unrepentantly leering at Bucky. It’s really creepy. “I don’t know what your plan is, here, but if you told him you’re not interested then I think he didn’t really get the memo. Wanna give him a reminder?”

“Not sure he’s the kind of guy who’d care about a boyfriend. He’s sleazy enough to just try and hit on you, too,” Bucky says cautiously.

“Just an idea.”

“You hate PDA,” Bucky reminds him. “And fake PDA in particular.”

“Yeah, I haven’t forgotten,” Steve retorts. “Just, you made me promise not to punch anyone, so - that’s an alternative, I guess. I owe you one. And I know you can handle him on your own, but I thought in case you wanted help, I thought I’d, you know, offer.”

Bucky wants to tell him, for the billionth time, that Steve doesn’t owe him for picking him up from jail, but they’ve had this argument about a dozen times by now and it doesn’t seem to stick. Sometimes, Steve has a weird notion of what friends would or wouldn’t do for one another, he thinks, but he’s also not really in a position to judge, because he’s friends with Natasha and Clint, so really, he’s probably the one with the weirder friendships.

He narrows his eyes at Steve to try and figure out whether he actually means it, whether he’d actually be _okay_ with going all out and putting on a show instead of just being stupidly brave and trying to power through the way he often does things. Then he remembers he’s not Steve’s keeper, Steve is a grown ass man making his own decisions, and if he wants to stop, he’ll tell Bucky. Hopefully. “Fuck it, let’s do it,” he says and grabs Steve’s hand, dragging him along.

“Oh God, you’re making me dance?”

“The alternative is to head to the bathroom and pretend to hook up there.”

“Jesus,” Steve says. “I need another drink for this,” he says, and steals Bucky’s drink, downing it in one big gulp. “Okay. Dancing. Okay.”

They take the dancefloor, and, amazingly, Steve doesn’t seem to mind Bucky crowding in close; in fact, he draws him even closer. Close enough to grind. Bucky suspects it’s liquid courage combined with Steve’s trademark stubbornness, but he’s not going to complain. He knows it costs Steve quite an effort to overcome whatever issues he has for this, so he appreciates it.

It’s also why he does not expect Steve to kiss him. Bucky makes a surprised sound that, to his own ears, sounds a lot like a squeaky toy being stepped on, and Steve takes the opportunity to sneak his tongue into Bucky’s mouth. There’s no way in hell Bucky isn’t responding to that, and then they’re full out making out in the middle of the room, surrounded by people jumping up and down or awkwardly shuffling from side to side, only vaguely moving in sync with the music and mostly grinding against each other, and Bucky’s brain cells die a quiet death with every brush of Steve’s tongue against his own. Time goes slow and syrupy. He doesn’t know how long they kiss. The entire world falls away, and Bucky is aware of nothing but the feel of Steve’s lips and the taste of vodka on his tongue, the rough texture of his shirt against his stomach. Then Steve pulls away, and the spell is broken.

From far away, he hears Sam yell “get a room!” It might not be directed at them, but it probably is.

“He still looking?” Steve asks, slightly out of breath.

Bucky tries not to look like someone just doused him with cold water. He hazards a look over Steve’s shoulder. “Looks like he wants to be in a Steve and Bucky sandwich,” he reports, grimacing.

“Fucking hell,” Steve murmurs. “I’m not doing the bathroom thing with you.”

“He’d probably try to join us,” Bucky jokes.

Steve shudders at the thought. “Can’t I just -“

“Steve, we talked about this, you can’t just punch all your problems and inconveniences in the face. And he’s not technically doing anything, ya know? Unfortunately, looking isn’t illegal.”

“Well, it makes me feel dirty anyway.”

“Let’s just go home,” Bucky says on impulse.

“You don’t wanna stay?” Steve looks surprised.

Bucky kind of wants to make out with Steve until Natasha kicks them out on the wee hours of the morning, but he can’t really say that. So instead he says, “I wanna get out of this uncomfortable piece of nothing, crash on the couch, eat pizza and watch a shitty movie. You in? They’ll all think you’re dragging me home to debauch me.”

He’s not imagining the way Steve’s eyes flicker up and down his body. He’s not. “Pizza sounds great,” Steve says.

When they leave, it’s to Clint screaming “Get it, Barnes!” at the top of his lungs and a few very drunk people whooping and hollering in agreement.

Steve drops Bucky’s hand the moment they’re out of sight. He does, however, hover unexpectedly close.  “Are you cold?” he asks.

“Nah, I’m alright,” Bucky waves him off, ignoring the chill travelling up his spine, before giving Steve a look. “Why, were you going to offer me your coat?”

“What? No, I-”

In the flicker of the streetlamp, it almost looks like Steve is blushing. Bucky decides to chalk the colour in his cheeks up to a mix of alcohol and the icy wind. “That’s very chivalrous of you, Steve, but I already got one.”

“Screw you,” Steve says, punching him lightly in the shoulder. “Just wanted to make sure you’re alright, is all.”

“I’m good,” Bucky reassures him.

Still, Steve stays close during the entire walk home, as if he knows Bucky is revelling in the heat he leeches off Steve every time their shoulders brush. It’s nice, Bucky thinks wistfully, and doesn’t allow himself to imagine what it would be like if it was real.

**∞**

Bucky is bored. He is so, so bored. He can't concentrate on his studying, no matter how hard he tries; it's not a problem since he can already recite basically everything in his book by heart, even the footnotes. Come to think of it, maybe that's why he's feeling like it's doing nothing to stimulate his brain cells.

Unoccupied with anything useful, his mind keeps going back to their kiss at Nat’s party, and the weirdly charged tension between them afterwards that lingered for a couple of days before they found even footing again. The invasive thoughts are unacceptable, and _he needs a distraction._

He's tried reading. He has been meaning to finish _Anna Karenina_ for a while now, but he couldn't get into it. There's plenty of movies in his Netflix queue, but none that he really feels like watching. Not even hanging upside down over the back of the couch has made the selection look any more interesting.

"I'm bored," he whines out loud.

The apartment, predictably, has nothing to say to that.

Ugh.

Still hanging upside down, Bucky makes a grab for his cell phone. On impulse he opens WhatsApp and messages Steve. He could probably do with some company, and Steve is a pro at kicking his ass back into gear. Weirdly, pushing stupid thoughts into the back of his mind works pretty well when Steve is actually with him. It’s when he’s not there and Bucky has too much time on his hands that he gets into trouble.

**_Wanna bang?_ **

He presses send before he notices his mistake. "Shit!" he curses, flailing wildly enough that he loses the balance he had so precariously kept up and slides down to land in a heap on the couch cushions with a yelp, clutching his phone tight. At least he landed soft. It takes a moment to untangle his limbs and sit up.

 **_*Hang!!_ ** he texts quickly, slightly panicked, despite the little check marks telling him Steve hasn't seen the message yet. **_I meant hang._ **

One check mark appears, then a second one. They don't turn blue. Of course, Steve's class only let out half an hour ago. He's either cooking, or at the gym, or immersed in his art right now. Chances are he won't see the text for a while.

Bucky chews on his lower lip, staring at his phone, contemplative. Taps it against his knee. Opens up the Buzzfeed app to take some quizzes, closes it again. Opens WhatsApp on his conversation with Steve. Stares some more.

His phone stays silent.

Slowly, he types out another message.

**_I mean. Whatever._ **

He hits send before he can talk himself out of it, and regrets it immediately. "Ugh," he says, and flops down on his belly, burying his face in one of the pillows. " _I mean. Whatever_ ," he mutters, voice pitched ridiculously high. "Smooth, Barnes."

He stuffs his phone under the pillow after that, hoping it might keep him from making some more terrible life choices today. Like ignoring it or pretending he didn't send Steve a stupid fucking text will undo it.

Bucky puts on some Netflix after all and successfully lives in blissful denial for two whole episodes of _Friends_ until there's a sharp knock on the door.

Steve's on the other side. There's still some smudges of graphite on his fingertips, but other than that he looks remarkably put together for just having been pulled out of one of his art sessions. He's also not in sweatpants, and his sketchbook is nowhere in sight.

"Hey," Bucky says, casual as can be. He hopes.

Steve doesn't return the greeting. Instead he steps around Bucky to let himself in, kicks the door closed with his foot and shoves his phone under Bucky's nose. "What the hell," he says, wiggling it around for emphasis, as if Bucky might not know what he's referring to, even if he couldn't see his stupid texts on the lit screen. "Explain."

“It was an honest mistake.” Bucky tries to sound nonchalant. Even to his ears it sounds more like a question than a statement.

Steve raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. “The first one, sure,” he allows. “The last one, not so much. So, I reiterate: what the hell?”

“Okay, hear me out -”

Bucky doesn’t get any further than that. Steve groans loudly, eyes turning heavenwards. Or, well, towards the ceiling, in any case. “I’m going to regret this so badly,” he says in quiet despair.

“What?” Bucky asks defensively.

“You have an idea. All your ideas are _the worst ideas_ ,” Steve says.

“Excuse you, all my ideas are awesome. May I remind you, all of this” - he gestures around wildly - “was my idea. And it’s working out great! Because I have _great_ ideas!”

“You had _one_ good idea,” Steve amends. “Just like a broken clock tells the right time twice a day.”

“Well, I’m certainly outmatching you by being right twice a day,” Bucky says petulantly. “Because you are almost never right, and really, you are the one with the terrible ideas. So brace yourself, because this is my second great idea of the day.”  No way out but through, now. Steve will probably not whoop his ass. Probably. He came to Bucky’s apartment when he could’ve just told Bucky to fuck off via text.

“Fine,” Steve sighs, long-suffering. “Hit me with it.”

Bucky blanks for a moment. The problem with spending time after doing something stupid pretending to live in la la land is that you don’t get around to preparing speeches. Which is why the first thing out of his mouth is, “I’m fucking bored out of my mind.”

There are probably better ways to open his sales pitch.

Steve’s starting to look distinctly disgruntled again, like Bucky is the number one cause of his every headache, so he barrels on before Steve can say anything. “I can’t concentrate. On anything. I seriously need to get out of this funk. You know what I usually do when I get like this?”

“Enlighten me,” Steve deadpans.

“I go out and get laid.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“What’s stopping me?” Bucky repeats incredulously. “ _What’s stopping me_? Are you insane?”

“Buck, you know that we don’t - I mean, I wouldn’t...mind,” Steve bites out. “Obviously. I don’t care who you sleep with. You are not obliged to remain celibate until we break up.”

“Well, _I_ care, because Natasha will _skin me_ if she finds out. And she will find out. That woman knows everything.”

“We’ve been over this, Bucky, Natasha is not a ninja or a super spy,” Steve replies, exasperated.

“Disagree, but that’s not the point here.”

“Then, pray tell, what is the point? Because I’m still not entirely sure you even have one.”

“This dry spell is driving me _insane_. It’s been eight weeks, man.” Ten, actually, but Bucky’s not going to go around blurting out that he hasn’t actually slept with anyone after Steve. Hasn’t even wanted to, really. Has wanted sex, yes, obviously, but not with some random stranger who is not Steve. He has barely even admitted that one to himself yet.

“Do you think you should maybe talk to a therapist about that?”

God, why is he attracted to someone who can be such an asshole?

“Fuck you,” Bucky says without heat.

“I believe that’s what you’re trying to do,” Steve remarks, smartass that he is. “I still don’t see how that’s my problem.”

“Because you will have to spend time with me and I will become insufferable?” Bucky tries.

Steve snorts. “So your brilliant solution is to sleep with me.”

“It’s the most obvious and logical choice,” Bucky argues. “Let’s face it, neither of us can really go out and hook up with someone else without risking it blowing up in our faces. Doing each other is kind of the only option we have. And it could be great! We already know that pretty much any sex we’re going to have would be mind-blowing. I know you’re interested, by the way, don’t even try and deny that, I saw you look.”

Steve has the grace to look abashed. “Of course I looked,” he defends himself, regardless. “There wasn’t anywhere else to look but naked skin-”

“There’s my _face-_ ”

“Like that’s safe,” Steve murmurs, whatever that means.

“Anyway,” Bucky continues, because he is on a roll, and he can totally get Steve’s resolve to crumble, “we know there wouldn’t be any feelings involved! I mean, we’re great at fake dating without letting feelings get in our way, so really, why not? Right now I’m horny and frustrated, which means I will turn unpleasantly annoying real soon, and in case you forgot, this is supposed to go on for another month at least. Either you’ll have to put up with my bad mood, or you can contribute to the solution. Or I guess we could end this now, in which case it was basically all for nothing, because none of our friends are going to buy us being that heartbroken after such a short time of dating. So if we’re gonna go through with this, we might as well take full advantage of this arrangement and make the most out of our fake relationship!”

Bucky’s a little breathless by the end of his rant. Steve just looks at him, expression inscrutable.

“So,” Bucky asks when the silence stretches uncomfortably long, “what do you say?”

Steve rubs his temples. “This is _such_ a bad idea,” he says, but he doesn’t say no, and just like that, Bucky knows he has won.

He can feel a wide grin starting to spread over his face. “It’s a _genius_ idea,” he counters. “Come on, Steve, say ‘Bucky, you have the greatest ideas, you are a genius, you are a God amongst men -”

“Oh, for the love of God, please shut up,” Steve moans.

"What?" Bucky needles, the last, final push that Steve needs. "You afraid my dick will make you fall in love with me?"

"Your  dick isn't that great, Barnes."

"You sure?" Bucky says. "Because I remember you being pretty appreciative -" and that's when Steve drops his phone on the coffee table, steps right into Bucky’s space, curls his right hand around his neck and kisses him stupid.

**∞**

Later, after Steve rolls off him to flop down on his back next to Bucky and they’re both staring at the ceiling, trying to catch their breath and sweat cooling on their skin, Bucky says, “You can say it now, you know. I’m not even gonna lord it over you if you do.”

Weakly, Steve swats at his abs. “Stop it.”

“Come on, Stevie.” Somehow, Bucky manages to summon enough energy to turn on his side and poke Steve between the ribs. “Say it.” He accentuates his plea with another poke. “Say it, say it, say --”

“You are insufferable,” Steve groans. He catches Bucky’s hand, yanks at it until Bucky is half draped over him. “Fine. Your idea was good. Happy now?”

“Your delivery could use some work,” Bucky informs him. “The enthusiasm is really lacking.”

“Imagine that,” Steve says dryly.

“But I’ll take what I can get.”

Steve smirks. “I’ll say.”

Bucky snorts. “I thought I was supposed to be the king of telling bad jokes.”

“You must be rubbing off on me.” Steve shrugs.

Bucky feels his grin turn into a leer. “I could be.”

“And there you go, you just reclaimed the throne.” Steve’s rolling his eyes at him, but he sounds fond.

“A joke and a genuine suggestion all in one sentence. Two for one, I’d say that’s not bad at all.”

“Oh really, again?” Steve raises an eyebrow. “Already?”

“What, you slacking already, Rogers? Can’t keep up with me?” Bucky goads.

Predictably, Steve’s eyes flash with annoyance and determination, the same mixture of emotions that always comes into play when someone challenges him, his particular expression of _fight me_. Bucky wants to see it all the time, even if it has the potential to land him in jail, and God, there is something seriously wrong with him.

“I can keep up with you just fine, and then some,” Steve promises.

“Really? Good.” Bucky grins and brushes his fingers lightly against Steve’s nipple, delights in the full body shiver it elicits. Steve’s pecs, he has already learnt, are weirdly sensitive, and Bucky would be lying if he said it didn’t fascinate him. “Because I’ve been wondering whether I could get you off,” he says conversationally, getting up on his elbow and then rolling atop of Steve, nudging his knees apart to settle between his legs, “just,” he leans down, bypasses Steve’s mouth to inch down his body, “doing,” he lets his breath fan over Steve’s nipples, smiles when he hears the slight hitch in Steve’s breathing, “this.” He closes his mouth around the hardened nub.

“Shit!” Steve’s spine is arching upwards as he scrambles for something to hold on to.

By the time Bucky finally makes him come, his knuckles are turning white with how hard he has twisted his fingers into the pillow. As it turns out, playing with his nipples isn’t quite enough to get Steve off, but it does turn Steve into a mess, writhing and whining and begging underneath his body until all it takes is Bucky grinding down once to make Steve spill over both their bellies, the tiny bit of friction enough to send him over the edge.

Bucky can’t even be mad that Steve doesn’t reciprocate, because he basically turns into a limp giant noodle afterwards, too weak to move for a good ten minutes; it’s probably - definitely - the biggest compliment of his sexual prowess he has ever received. Also, Steve lets Bucky fuck him after, which is a whole new level of hot.

They end up spending the entire weekend in bed, fucking and napping alternately, only crawling out from underneath the covers to shower and eat, and grab Bucky’s laptop so they can watch some Netflix while they lounge around to gather the strength for the next round. It leaves Bucky equal parts giddy and exhausted; he’s pretty sure he hasn’t come that often in such a short amount of time since high school, which is awesome, and actually even better than it was when he was a teenager. Back then he was mostly riding the high that came with the thrill caused by novelty of being touched by another person. Now it’s teasing and technique, and it only gets better the longer they go, the more they map each other’s bodies, learning the other’s tells and weak spots.

It’s easily the best time Bucky has ever spent with anyone, inside _or_ outside the bedroom.

He tries not to examine that one too closely. That way only lies madness.

**∞**

“Steve,” Bucky starts, then bites his lip to cut himself off.

Steve is a warm weight in Bucky’s arms, draped half over him, his face buried in Bucky’s shoulder as Bucky mindlessly runs his hand up and down his back in a soft caress. The sweat covering their skin is making their bodies stick together in a way that Bucky should probably find gross but doesn’t. He’s relaxed and sleepy and unguarded in a way he so rarely allows himself to be, so maybe now is the best time to ask him. Or maybe not. Maybe never would be a good time to ask him. Really, Bucky should just mind his own business instead of sticking his nose somewhere it doesn’t belong and ruin the comfortable silence.

“Hmm,” Steve hums. It’s half acknowledgement of Bucky saying his name and half complaint. Bucky hadn’t realised his hand had stopped moving until Steve moves against him, powerful muscles rolling under the skin of his back as he arches a little into Bucky’s touch in a wordless plea for him to resume his petting.

Bucky complies readily. As it turns out, he is less and less able to muster up the willingness to refuse Steve anything. It’s becoming a problem, but as Steve sighs softly and burrows deeper into his shoulder, he can’t find it in him to care.

The cuddling is a recent addition to… whatever it is they’ve been doing for the last couple of weeks. Can you still call it fuck buddies when physical intimacy that doesn’t revolve around sex is involved? Probably, Bucky decides. It’s not like Steve’s in love with him, or that he’s in love with Steve. They’re not dating, not really. Steve’s just finally reached a point where he’s comfortable enough around Bucky to seek out touch and reassurance.

When they started hooking up, Steve only truly let Bucky touch him when they were having sex. Their thighs pressing together to balance the laptop as they streamed Netflix in bed was alright, but when Bucky tried to sling his arm around his shoulder to draw him closer, Steve had only fixed him with a dark look, and that had been that, a firm line drawn not in sand but in concrete, it had seemed. Every night he had stayed over, however, without fail, Bucky had woken up to Steve’s long limbs wrapped all around him, something that only ever lasted for as long as he was asleep. The moment Steve woke up, unless their embrace devolved into sex straight away, he’d withdraw within the span of seconds.

It had confused the hell out of Bucky, how Steve had so obviously been craving touch, craving intimacy, except for when he was awake enough to enjoy it. It made sense, of course, for Steve to want to separate sex and friendship as much as he could, to avoid blurring the lines and slipping into relationship territory. Logical, and straightforward enough in theory. In practice, it had been a difficult line to navigate, because the deep-seated knowledge that Steve liked touch, combined with his own tactile nature and the fact that touching Steve was nice and he wanted to do it _all the time_ had often had Bucky fighting very hard not to steamroll over Steve’s boundaries, and usually either failing or becoming hesitant enough for Steve to take notice. It had made for an awkward couple of days: Bucky trying to pretend to be nonchalant about keeping his hands to himself, and Steve trying not to be annoyed at him failing miserably.

Instead of talking about it like responsible adults, they’ve now found a delicate balance, a middle ground that declares the bed as the one zone where Bucky has permission to touch Steve almost all he likes. He’ll allow post-coital cuddles and fingers raking through his hair, arms thrown around him, as long as Bucky doesn’t take it outside of the bedroom when they don’t have an audience. It’s a decent enough compromise, Bucky figures, that leaves both of them satisfied.

He still works very hard to keep random kisses to himself.

“What,” Steve mumbles when the silence drags on for too long. He sounds halfway asleep already, or maybe it’s just because his voice is muffled by Bucky’s skin.

“Nothing,” Bucky says. “Forget it.”

Steve lets out a low, frustrated groan.

“It’s nothing,” Bucky repeats.

Steve doesn’t even bother lifting his head as he moves his hand to pinch Bucky’s nipple, making him jump so hard he nearly dislodges Steve from his chest.

“Ow!” Bucky protests, swatting Steve’s hand away. “What the fuck?”

“Spit it out.”

“I said forget it, okay? It’s not important.”

“See, you’re telling me two different things,” Steve says, shifting his weight until he can get his elbow underneath himself and prop himself up on one arm and stare Bucky down, one eyebrow raised in his patented _I am extremely unimpressed by you and your antics_ look that he reserves only for Bucky. “Either it’s nothing, so there’s nothing to forget, or there is something, and if it’s ‘unimportant’” - Bucky can literally hear the quotation marks - “then it really just means you chickened out.”

“I did not chicken out,” Bucky argues, desperately trying to pretend Steve doesn’t have his number. “It just means it was not important.”

“Yeah, because when has that ever stopped you.”

“I thought I’d let you sleep. You seemed sleepy.”

“Again, when has that ever stopped you?”

“Now you just make me sound like an annoying asshat.”

“If the shoe fits…” Steve shrugs, smirking.

Bucky punches him in the shoulder. “Screw you.”

Steve grins and lies back down on Bucky’s chest. “C’mon, Buck,” he says quietly

Bucky takes a moment to consider his choices. “I don’t know how to ask without it sounding offensive,” he admits after a second.

“At the risk of sounding like a parrot, again, when -”

“I will kick you out of this bed and chase you naked through the apartment,” Bucky threatens. Steve giggles. “I will chase you into the streets, Mister Public Decency. You’ll faint of embarrassment and I’ll be a billionaire, because all the ladies and some men will throw their dollar bills at me to thank me for providing them with such a magnificent view.”

“It worries me that it sounds like you’ve really thought that fantasy through.”

“I’m a very thorough sort of guy.”

“Oh, I know.” He can feel Steve’s lip curling up in amusement against his skin before his smile falls. He sighs, and when he speaks again, his voice is quiet, sober. “I know what you want to ask me.”

“You do?” Bucky blurts, surprised.

“Well, yeah, I’m not stupid.”

A beat of silence. “Well, are you gonna tell me?”

“Are you actually gonna ask me anything?” Steve shoots back.

“I thought you knew what I was gonna ask,” Bucky complains. “Why are you trying to make me ask, then? Do you just enjoy me making an ass out of myself?”

“Yes,” Steve answers simply.

“Fine. What’s the deal with you and relationships?”

“Look at you, you managed to miss the offensive mark,” Steve mocks, before sighing and rubbing a hand over his face. “I should be drunk for this.”

Bucky tenses. “You know you don’t actually have to tell me, right?”

The look Steve gives him suggests that that’s the stupidest thing to ever come out of Bucky’s mouth. “Yes,” he says.

“Okay.”

“It’s not actually bad,” Steve says. “Not in the way you’re probably expecting.”

“You don’t know what I’m expecting.”

“I think I’ve got a pretty good idea,” Steve says dryly. “I just don’t generally like to talk about my stupid emotional hang-ups.”

“No one ever does,” Bucky remarks, and Steve hums in agreement.

“You remember when I told you about my first time?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Bucky says darkly. He still occasionally gets the urge to punch that guy in the dick when he thinks about it. There’s a certain amount of sympathy he can dredge up for scared teens in the closet, but that particular well runs out pretty quickly upon facing someone treating Steve like shit.

“All of high school was like that for me, basically. He wasn’t the only guy I “dated” back then, actually. There was this other guy I saw during junior year. New transfer student, a jock, too, but not openly an asshole or bully. First time he heard me rant in history class he laughed, but he wasn’t malicious about it. Said he admired my passion, which was not something anyone had ever said to me before. Mostly they just thought I was annoying.” Steve shrugs. “I didn’t really have friends, back then. I wasn’t all that good at social interaction, and I was always angry, and I thought all that cliquey high school stuff was bullshit anyway, so I wasn’t really out to make friends either. There were two other kids in the Gay-Straight-Alliance that sort of put up with me, but for the most part, no one wanted anything to do with the argumentative, shit-stirring, vocally queer kid.”

“You were out in high school?” Bucky asks, even though he’s not surprised.

“Me and one other kid. So it wasn’t like there was a big dating pool anyway. And then along comes this guy who is kind of nice to me. We were partnered for a project for a couple of weeks, and then we started hanging out after, in secret. Brock spun this story about his parents being extremely religious, that he wasn’t out to them, that he couldn’t be seen with me because he was afraid they’d kick him out for even associating with me. And I wasn’t -” Steve bites his lip. “I wasn’t ashamed of my sexuality. I wasn’t going to go back into the closet, take off my rainbow flag lapel on my jacket and pretend to be a straight guy for the sake of his parents, on the off chance that his other friends wouldn’t comment on me and let the cat out of the bag. I didn’t want to hide, but I wasn’t going to out him, or force him to come out to his parents, not when it sounded like they might kick him out.”

“That sucks,” Bucky says. “Were you in love with him?”

“Well, yeah. First guy to ever show interest. So we snuck around. We didn’t go on dates, we didn’t hold hands. The only even vaguely couple-like thing we could do in public was me coming to his games. He’d barely acknowledge me in school, but he also wasn’t an asshole, and the sex was good, and I was in love, so so what? I was happy enough to put my high horse back in the stable for a while. I didn’t realise until later how little interest in _me_ he actually showed. We were horny teenagers, so the time we spent together was mostly spent fooling around, not talking, which I suppose is why I didn’t catch on for a while. And then I met his parents.”

“I’m guessing that didn’t go over so well.”

“It went great, actually,” Steve says, no hint of irony in his voice. “They were lovely.”

Bucky blinks. “Wait, what?” he asks, confused.

“It wasn’t planned, obviously. I was never supposed to meet them. But my mum dragged me along to parent teacher conference, like she always did, and Brock’s parents were still waiting on their appointment, because the teacher was running late, so they started chatting to us. Turns out they weren’t religious at all. Not openly homophobic either. They actually complimented me on my rainbow flag. I mean, they were awkward around me in the way most straight people are when they’re trying to prove too hard that they have no problems with gay people, but they obviously meant well.”

“Shit,” Bucky breathes.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees with a wry twist of his mouth. “When I confronted Brock about it he laughed at me, for being so naive, for believing him so easily. He didn’t want to be seen with me, but being gay was not the problem. The problem was just me and how I would’ve ruined his cred by dating him.”

“The problem was _not_ you!” Bucky says sharply. “Are you kidding me, Steve? You were not the problem, the problem was that this guy was a massive asshole.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Bucky asks. He twists in Steve’s arms until he’s on his side, facing Steve. He’s trying to avoid Bucky’s gaze, so Bucky brings a hand up to his chin and tips it up with his fingers until Steve is reluctantly meeting his eyes. “Do you really?”

“Yes,” Steve says firmly. He still manages to sound unconvincing. Bucky quirks one eyebrow, and Steve huffs out a laugh. “Rationally, yes,” he amends.

“And realistically?”

“In reality, it’s a lot harder to shake off the little voices in your head telling you that it’s totally to be expected for people to think that way about you. That of course no one in their right mind would want me.”  

“You still feel that way,” Bucky realises.

“Sometimes,” Steve admits.

“I can’t imagine there are a lot of people who wouldn’t want you,” Bucky points out carefully.

“People aren’t embarrassed to be seen with me anymore,” Steve concedes, “but now it’s because of-” the vaguely gestures at his body ”- this, you know? People think I’m good arm candy. And that’s - look, I don’t want to complain about how I look. I’m a lot healthier now than I was, and a lot more comfortable in my body, too, and I’m glad. It’s a good thing. And in general, things got a lot better once I went to college. Dating went better, I suppose. Just, a lot of people look at me and they don’t necessarily want to get to know me, they want to -”

“Fuck you,” Bucky fills in the blank.

“First and foremost, yeah.” Steve smiles wanly. “And that’s fine, I don’t mind that, obviously. I like sex -”

“I noticed,” Bucky jokes, trying to lighten the mood.

“- and as long as I know that’s all I’m signing up for that’s alright. When Tyler and I hooked up under those bleachers, I knew that was all it’d ever be. I was the only queer kid in school he could go to. Same with Brock, essentially. Back then they wanted to hook up with me because I was the only available option, now it’s because of the way I look.”

“There must have been people trying to get to know you,” Bucky insists. “Date you.”

“Sure there were. They were happy to show me off to the world, too. Which I think I should’ve felt happy about. It was all I wanted in high school, you know? For someone to hold my hand in public, kiss me, to be comfortable with everyone knowing we were together. But now I clam up half the time, and it’s not because I’m so used to hiding. It’s almost like a reserve-Brock situation.”

Bucky’s starting to see where this is going. “He didn’t want to be seen with you because he thought it would drag him down the social ladder, and now you feel like people who show you off do it to climb up the ladder.”

“Yeah.” Steve scoffs. “Stupid, isn’t it?”

Bucky aches for him. “I don’t think your feelings are stupid, Steve.”

“Thanks,” Steve says after a beat of silence. He sounds like he means it. “It’s not like that with everyone, and I know that, but I’ve definitely gone out with people who wanted to get me in their bed and brag to their friends, parade me around, more than they wanted to genuinely spend time with me. And even with those who did...well, it’s difficult not to get disheartened when you realise that most people don’t really want to stick around once they get to know you a little better. I can be kind of prickly and abrasive.”

“You don’t say,” Bucky says, grinning a little.

“I’m working on it. Most people don’t really want to put up with it, though, not that I blame them. Meeting Sam was a godsend. I think he was the first person beside my mom who looked at me and actually liked the person I was, bad sides and all. Peggy, too, later.”

“She’s one hell of a lady, I’m not surprised she could handle your temper.”

“We’re pretty similar people. Too similar to make it work, in the end.” Steve shrugs and shifts away a little in a way that indicates that this is all he’ll say on the topic, and can they please drop it?

“Thank you,” Bucky says quietly.

Steve shoots him a surprised look. “For what?”

“For trusting me with this.” Bucky bites his lip. “Can I say something potentially very sappy?”

“What, sappier than what you just said?”

“Shut up.” Bucky punches him lightly in the shoulder.

Steve sighs. “Go for it.”

Bucky mulls the words over in his head for a while, until he thinks he knows everything he wants to say. “I’m sorry that assholes made you feel this way. You should totally tell me Brock’s last name, by the way. If I ever meet him, I want to punch him in the face.”

“Aww,” Steve coos in the most sarcastic tone Bucky has ever heard. “How sweet, but you don’t gotta defend my honour nearly ten years after the fact.”

“Who said it was for you?” Bucky fires back. “Maybe I just wanna punch someone. Also, don’t interrupt me.”

“Wait, there’s more? Jesus Christ.”

“Listen. This is honesty hour, and it’s not easy saying this, so. Pay attention. I’m sorry you feel that way. And I know it won’t go away easily, I just hope that...that you’ll find that person where you can be sure. Who loves you the way you are, as it should be, and who lets you know. And that eventually you’ll be able to not question why people like you. Because honestly, everyone should like you. People who don’t must fucking have straw for their brains.”

“Bucky,” Steve interrupts him, wide-eyed and stunned, but Bucky is not done, and he’ll say this if it kills him, because Steve deserves to know. He deserves to hear this. He should hear this every day.

“I’m fucking serious! You- God, you have no idea how amazing you are, the things that you do, the way you treat people, the things you care about - I mean, you drive me up the fucking wall, you do, worse than anyone I’ve ever met, and I still wanna hang out with you all the time, because you are hilarious and smart, and determined and passionate and kind, and probably the strongest person I know, and honestly, if people can’t see that, or see you and don’t see someone worth being with, then they don’t fucking deserve you in the first place.”

“That’s -” Steve clears his throat. “I don’t know what to respond to that.”

“You could say ‘thank you Bucky, you are absolutely right’, or, if you can’t say that, you could just not say anything.”

Bucky fully expects Steve to go with option b), but instead, Steve stretches up to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Thank you,” he whispers, before burrowing back into Bucky’s side, letting out a shuddering breath, and all Bucky can do is wrap his arms tighter around him and hold him close.

**∞**

“Okay, spit it out,” Natasha says calmly, dropping her hand from her chin and leaning back in her chair, getting comfortable as she assesses him with her scrutinising gaze.

Bucky blinks, confused. “What?”

Her eyebrow twitches. Whoops.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky lies.

This time, the eyebrow twitch is accompanied with a pointed look at the glass sitting in front of Bucky; he’s been moping into his drink in sullen silence for long enough that the ice in his whiskey has nearly melted completely. He hasn’t even taken a sip since clinking his glass to hers for a toast, and he doesn’t need her to vocalise the demand not to bullshit her. He wants to talk about it, Bucky realises suddenly; needs to talk about it to someone, and all of this would be so much easier if the impending conversation wasn’t going to be a tightrope walk of not revealing too much without lying.

“Yeah, okay,” he says and gives the dark amber fluid in his glass another look. It appears a lot more inviting now, and he decides that he might need some liquid courage if he has to practise some unexpected honesty, so he might as well drink it. Natasha’s expression creases into a frown of concern and then softens as she watches him down half of his drink in one go.

“What’s going on?” she asks gently.

“It’s Steve,” he blurts out before finding he can’t say anything else. The words are sitting on his tongue, curling up in his throat and desperate to be let out into the open, but he can’t say them, not now, not like this, not without regaining some self control to prevent him for spilling all his secrets.

Natasha waits him out, clearly seeing his struggle and trying to give him space. Only when the silence stretches on for too long and it becomes clear Bucky isn’t going to say anything else does she prompt him. “Trouble in paradise?” she asks, voice deceptively light.

“No,” Bucky protests immediately, vehemently. There’s no trouble, they’re not fighting, they’re getting along better than ever and Bucky is _happy_ when he’s with Steve, happier than he can remember being for years, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong between them, except for how everything is. “Yes,” he amends. “I mean - no, not really? It’s just… I don’t know.”

“Did you have a fight?”

“No. No, we’re good, we’re great, even, I’m just -”

“Freaking out,” Natasha finishes for him.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes out, because that kind of summarises it neatly. He’s absolutely freaking out.

“Why are you freaking out?”

“I really like him,” Bucky says. “I’m so -”

“In love with him?” Natasha seems slightly amused at his surprised face. “Yes, you are. This is not new information, Barnes. Not to me, not to anybody who has seen the two of you or spent a minute in your company. So why -” she asks, ”- are you panicking about this? You can’t have only realised it just now. I was sure you’d already told him weeks ago. Are you having a belated reaction?”

The realisation is relatively recent, but Bucky’s not going to tell her that. To be honest, he thinks, he’s known for a while, he just never wanted to acknowledge it or admit it even to himself. Maybe he even hoped this would happen when he first suggested the con, he doesn’t know for sure. Denial is a powerful thing, an artform that he believed he had perfected long ago. “That’s not it,” he says, just to avoid outright lying to her. “Just...have you ever felt like you are way more invested in a relationship than your partner?”

There’s a pause. “Yes,” Natasha says carefully. “Do you feel like that’s the case with you and Steve?”

He doesn’t feel like it’s the case - it _is_ the case, because Bucky is the only one dumb enough to violate their agreement. Steve is good at controlling his emotions, and Bucky had to be stupid and fall in love with him when they promised each other they wouldn’t. Not that he can tell her that. He nods. It’s probably kind of shitty of him to throw Steve under the bus like that when he wasn’t the one who did anything wrong, but hey, on the bright side, they can use that as an excuse for when they fake the break up. It’ll save them from having to stage a huge pretend fight.

 _Hurray_ , Bucky thinks bitterly.

“Why?” Natasha asks.

“Huh?”

“Why do you feel that way?” she elaborates. “Do you know for sure he feels less for you or are you just working based on assumptions? Have you explained to him how much you feel for him and asked him if he feels the same?”

“Not as such, no,” Bucky admits, “but I’m pretty certain. Like, ninety-nine percent certain.”

Natasha narrows her eyes at him. “I’m not going to ask you why you think that, because I’m quite sure you won’t tell me anyway. And I’m not in that relationship, so I can’t tell you you’re wrong without sounding like an ignorant asshole but I will say this: It certainly looks like your feelings are reciprocated. I’ve seen you two together and it looks like he’s pretty damn besotted with you. So before you go and despair and let this doubt spiral out of control and fuck everything up, you should just talk to him.”

Bucky snorts. “You make it sound so simple and easy.”

“It is simple,” Natasha says. “Relationships aren’t rocket science. The key to them is pretty straightforward: it’s communication. That’s not _easy_ \- relationships hardly ever are, and they’re hard work. Baring your soul to someone, even someone you love, can be really difficult for some people, especially if they think something is going wrong. But it’s only going to get worse if you pretend the problem doesn’t exist. You just gotta make sure you two try and stay on the same page. That can’t happen if one or even both of you don’t know what’s going on.”

Bucky smiles at her, because that’s some very solid advice, and he’d be grateful for it if he could actually use it in this situation. “Thank you, Nat,” he says. “You’re a good friend.”

She looks surprised for a fraction of a second before her face slides back into the smooth, collected mask he knows she uses to hide her feelings. “I’m aware,” she shoots back, smirking.

“I mean it,” he insists. “I know I give you a lot of shit, and I don’t give you nearly enough credit for putting up with me, and I don’t say it often enough, but you’re a great friend. You always have my back and you’re always there when I need you, and I really….I really appreciate it. So thank you.”

Natasha blinks, expression turning soft and vulnerable. “You’re welcome.”

He’s the luckiest son of a bitch in the world, Bucky thinks, to have friends like this. Friends who’re going to be there and pick up the pieces of him when he and Steve officially break it off. It won’t even be a lie anymore when he feels like shit, not that it’ll make it much better. Not for the first time, he understands why Steve was so reluctant to lie to his friends. It’s a shitty thing to do and in this moment he hates that he deliberately went into this farce trying to fuck with them, that he will hurt them, no matter what. At least Bucky will know that no matter how guilty they might feel for setting up the relationship, he’ll feel worse than them.

It’s  a cold comfort, but as with everything else in his life, Bucky takes what he can get.

**∞**

Steve is puttering around the kitchen, humming cheerfully under his breath like the disgustingly well-adjusted morning person he is when Bucky stumbles out of the bedroom, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and cursing the fact that he can’t just go back to sleep for another hour or ten. Responsibility is just the thing that sucks most about being an adult.

“Coffee?” he asks blearily, walking up behind Steve, who’s blocking the counter.

“Should be ready in about three minutes,” Steve says.

“Ugh,” Bucky groans and decides to shut out the world for a little while longer by slumping against Steve and hiding his face against his shoulder. He’s earnt three more minutes of blissful semi-awakeness, he thinks. Really, no one can expect him to be awake when there’s no coffee.

God, how did he even manage to get through mornings before Steve was there to shove a full mug into his hands the moment he entered the kitchen? Having this sort of luxury nearly every day now has made him weak. How did he survive long enough to put the coffee on and wait for it to brew before?

He could tell him, Bucky thinks wildly for a minute. He could just take Nat’s advice and have an honest conversation with Steve. It’s an option, technically, except it’s not, really. If he told Steve, he’d ruin it all. He would just end up losing Steve a lot earlier than he was willing to give him up.

This is torture, he thinks as he slings his arms around Steve’s waist. It hurts, to know he can’t have this forever. It hurts to look at Steve, so close and yet so far away. But it’s better than nothing. All the hurt in the world is worth it, just for these little moments, and God help him, he’s going to take as many of them as he can.

Steve’s shoulders are shaking with laughter. “Well, good morning to you,” he says loud enough to make Bucky cringe.

“Fuck you,” Bucky grumbles.

“Maybe when you’re actually awake,” Steve replies good-naturedly.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Bucky says. “That’s just cruel.”

“Who says I can’t keep that promise?”

“The fact that I have to go to work in, like, fifteen minutes,” Bucky says. Why do there have to be well-adjusted students who actually use the library this early in the morning and need the reference desk to be open?

“Like you’ll actually wake up before you have to leave,” Steve snorts. “You’ll sleepwalk to work and possibly reach full consciousness by the time your lunch break comes around.”

Bucky perks up. “Are you offering to drop by for a quickie between the library stacks?” he asks, pointedly ignoring the defamation of his character in favour of this glorious prospect.

Unfortunately, Steve looks horrified by the suggestion. “ _No_ ,” he says, voice strangled. “No, absolutely not. But if you come home between your shift and your 5 pm class, I might be able to swing by here? One of my professors cancelled his office hours so I won’t have to be back on campus until my TA class in the evening. I know you don’t usually come home in between, but...” Steve trails off, shrugging.

“I’ll take that compromise.” Bucky grins. “If I make puppy dog eyes at Wanda I might even be able to leave on time for once, or even a little early. Hey, why are you pouring my coffee into a thermos instead of a mug?”

“Because you have only about five minutes before you need to go and catch the train, and I think instead of drinking caffeine you might want to spend that time brushing your teeth and actually getting dressed, unless you think boxers are appropriate work attire.”

Bucky yelps, and rushes to the bedroom to throw on some clothes and grab his bag. When he emerges, teeth brushed and hair sort of wrangled into a style that looks less like actual bedhead than artistical mess, Steve is holding out the thermos along with his leather jacket and an umbrella. “You are a gift,” Bucky intones.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, waving him off and rolling his eyes.

Without thinking, Bucky turns around to give him a peck on the lips. He’s two steps away from the door when he realises he just gave Steve a goodbye kiss like a 50s husband going off to work and saying goodbye to his stay-at-home wife, and freezes. What the actual fuck. Shit. _Shit_. He’ll know now, Steve’ll find out. Can Bucky pass this off as a half-sleepy, instinctual action he’s not responsible for? He turns around to find Steve still rooted on the spot, looking at him with wide eyes, and all smooth apologies and excuses he might have come up with escape him. “Uh,” he says. “I’mma - “ he jerks his thumb towards the door- “work. See you at - see you.”

And then he flees before Steve has the chance to yell at him.

It still pretty much fucks up his entire day. He’s jittery and absentminded at work thanks to the constant thrum of panic surging through his veins, bad enough for several students to ask him if he’s okay. Even his professors look at him in concern and annoyance when he fumbles with their book reservations, too distracted running a million possible scenarios of how his next not-date with Steve might play out to focus on anything substantial.

He considers coming clean to Steve, and gives himself five minutes to indulge in a fantasy in which his feelings are actually returned. He considers coming clean to Steve and spends another two hours imagining Steve’s horrified and betrayed face, imagines Steve sneering in contempt, and, when he acknowledges that Steve’s too nice for that, he imagines Steve letting him down easy, imagines the pity in his eyes while saying _thanks but no thanks, you’re not what I’m looking for, you could never be what I’m looking for, the sex is great and you’re an okay friend but that’s all._

He considers quitting his job, dropping out of college and moving to Alaska; he could probably ask Natasha and Clint to pack up his stuff and send it to him. It’d be perfect, he wouldn’t ever have to see Steve again.

Except Natasha would never do that outside of his wildest fantasies, and it seems a little extreme to uproot his life because of Steve’s inevitable rejection.

Just a little, though. A tad. A smidgen.

Natasha would call him a coward and a drama queen, and she’d be right on both accounts. So when two o’clock rolls around and his shift ends, Bucky decides to suck it up despite the waves of nausea rolling through his body and heads home instead of giving in to the flight response every cell in his body is screaming at him to choose. He only very nearly throws up from fear and, once he gets home and has the opportunity to wind down for a few minutes in silence and solitude before Steve arrives, actually manages to calm down enough to stop his hands from trembling.

During his calmer moments, Bucky is kind of surprised and disgusted with himself. He’s never reacted like this before; it’s ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous and over the top and, quite frankly, probably not really healthy. The mere thought of losing something that isn’t even real shouldn’t make him feel like he’s quietly dying all the time.

There’s a knock on the door and Bucky doesn’t even have time to put his more elaborate game face on, because the moment he opens he gets an arm full of 180 pounds of deliciously muscled, all-American beefcake kissing the breath out of him. He can’t help the sound of surprise he makes; Steve isn’t usually one for pouncing on Bucky without announcing his intentions, but he’s not complaining. This is familiar, this is easy, and he can lose himself in the feeling of Steve’s lips on his and let his worries fly out of the window.

“Well, hello to you too,” he says, when he draws back to catch his breath, grinning broadly, because obviously Steve doesn’t know, Steve’s not onto him, Steve’s chalking up the stupid kiss to sleepiness and he’s not ending things today, and Bucky can breathe again.

Steve’s answering smile is a little wild, as is the way he crowds him towards the bedroom and the frantic way he pulls at Bucky’s clothes. He doesn’t think he’s ever been undressed that quickly before; not that he minds, even as he struggles to get Steve to equal nakedness, which is a pursuit that works much better once Steve decides to get in on it. He chucks his socks into a corner instead of folding up his clothes the way he usually does like the goddamn nerd he is and pushes Bucky until he falls back onto the bed with Steve following right after him, propping himself up on his elbows and hovering over Bucky.

There isn’t nearly enough skin contact between the two of them for Bucky’s taste, and he waits for a few seconds for Steve to move, to no avail. He’s just...staring at Bucky’s face, looking flushed and excited and _hungry_ , eyes wide and maybe a tiny bit terrified. But that thought is ridiculous, and Bucky doesn’t have time to parse his expression when he feels like he is starving himself, so it’s not long before he gets impatient and drags Steve down for a kiss, arching his body, trying to press his torso against Steve’s, revel in the warmth of him. It’s not enough; it’s never enough, even as Steve complies and rocks down against him, kissing him deep and urgent til Bucky feels it in his toes. He wants to feel Steve everywhere, against him and inside him and around him, always.

Maybe Steve senses his desperation, or maybe he just needs a moment to breathe, but he breaks the kiss, only drawing back just far enough to nudge Bucky with his nose, to pull him out of his thoughts before he gets lost in them and the intensity of it all.

“Hey,” Bucky whispers, nonsensically.

Steve’s face lights up into a beatific smile, as if it’s the greatest thing Bucky has ever said. “Hi,” he says, out of breath, ducking his head like he’s suddenly shy, and then he’s kissing Bucky again and doesn’t stop, not when they align their cocks and rut against each other, not when he takes both of them in his hand and strokes them until Bucky cries out his name and spills all over his abs and hand, not when he shudders through his own orgasm, and not after, not for a long time, even as the urgency leaves their movements and they end up trading lazy kisses until their heartbeats have gone back to normal, until their lips slow down enough that they’re practically only breathing into each other’s mouths.

“I should go shower,” Steve says eventually.

“Hmm,” Bucky hums in agreement. He doesn’t want to move, but he knows he’ll have to. A look at his alarm clock tells him he doesn’t have a whole lot of time left before he has to go back to class, so it’s a good thing Steve is being rational and keeping track of time.

“You coming with?”

“Not if you want me to be punctual,” Bucky retorts, and, already anticipating Steve’s stance on the issue, grabbing the wet wipes he has stashed in his bedside table.

“You’re going back to campus all sweaty like this?” Steve asks as he watches him clean up haphazardly. “Gross.”

Bucky shrugs. “I have time for coffee or a shower, and I think coffee’s more important, so coffee it is. Want some too?”

“It takes two minutes to shower!”

“You want some or not?”

“Sure. I’m gonna go clean up first, though, because I’m not a pig.”

Bucky tries to swat him on the ass on his way out, but Steve dances away. “Next time I’m using your shirt to clean up!” he yells after him.

“Do that and you’re a dead man, Barnes,” Steve shouts back, unimpressed, so Bucky pulls on Steve’s shirt as revenge before going to make coffee, singing under his breath, all the tension of the day fallen away - or maybe fucked out of him. Who knows. Who cares?

He’s just pouring the coffee when Steve joins him in the kitchen, sliding into the chair Bucky has only just managed to fit in the tiny gap between the table and the wall. It looks ridiculous, Bucky thinks fondly, the way he has to fold his long limbs in order to wedge himself into the tiny space that barely allows for the chair to be pulled away from the table, and is much less able to accommodate someone over six feet.  

“I think we should stop.”

Steve’s voice is quiet but firm. There’s a sense of finality to it that punches the breath right out of Bucky’s lungs, wraps itself tightly and painfully around his ribcage until he feels like his heart might collapse under the pressure, and Bucky has to clutch his coffee mug tighter to prevent it from slipping through his fingers, from crashing to the floor and spilling all his secret on the tiles for everyone to see.

It’s funny. He should have expected the words to leave Steve’s mouth any time today. He _had_ been expecting them, before Steve went and pretended like he hadn’t fucked up. He should’ve been prepared for it, still, shouldn’t have let himself be lulled into a false sense of security. But Steve showed up and acted like everything was alright, like everything was great, and it suddenly makes a lot more sense that Steve would come here like this: one last hurray before the end.

He should’ve seen it. Technically, he’s been waiting for this moment since this entire farce began. He’s definitely been waiting for it all day. And yet, it hits him unexpectedly, the reality of the realisation that this is it, the end of the line, and shit, how did he ever allow himself to forget that this moment would come, even for a second? How did he allow himself to get lost in how it felt to pretend?

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat a little, carefully busying himself with putting the milk back into the fridge and then getting out a spoon to stir his coffee, even though he usually never bothers, just to have an excuse to keep his back to Steve for a few more moments, precious time to collect himself, to wipe whatever emotions might be showing off his face.

If Steve weren’t so goddamn observant and the whiskey wasn’t standing in the living room, he’d be well inclined to make his coffee irish. He could use some alcohol for this conversation. As it is, the drinking will just have to wait until after, and at least once Steve has left, he’ll be able to drink himself into oblivion without anyone looking at him disapprovingly.

“Stop fake dating,” Steve clarifies, like the lack of immediate reaction from Bucky is confusing him, as if there was any other goddamn thing he could be talking about.

“Sure,” Bucky says, forcing himself to turn around and nod. “I mean, we had to do it sometime, right? The timing makes sense -” he adds, bitterly thinking of his conversation with Natasha. The timing is _perfect._

“And we should start dating.”

“...they’ll leave us alone for a while, maybe even…” Bucky trails off. “Wait, what?”

“Date. We should date.”

His heart does a strange little flutter in his chest. Bucky’s not entirely sure whether his head is spinning from the sudden emotional whiplash or whether there is something seriously wrong with him, or whether maybe he just forgot to breathe for a moment, but either way, he doesn’t fancy the idea of fainting in his kitchen, so he sinks onto the nearest chair, opposite Steve, which allows him to study Steve’s face more closely.

Bucky stares at Steve and Steve stares back steadily, almost defiantly, but there’s also a faint blush rising to his cheeks and his left knee is wiggling rather violently under the table - Bucky can _feel_ the vibrations he causes - which he only ever does when he is nervous and oh, _oh_.

He’s been an idiot, too wrapped up in his own private little meltdown over feeling to _see._

“Date, huh,” he echoes, trying to sound casual. “Like, for real?” It’s redundant to ask, really, but he needs to hear Steve says it.

“Yes, that’s what I _said_.”

How Steve can throw this amount of sass in his face right now is beyond him. Maybe it’s nerves, or maybe it’s that he thinks Bucky is the biggest idiot on the planet. Which is not fair; it’s not like he’s given Bucky much to go on that would’ve led him to the conclusion that he wanted more than what they had. Also, he _didn’t fucking say that,_ he started off with _we should stop_ , like an asshole.

Bucky loves him so much it hurts.

That doesn’t mean he’s not going to give Steve a taste of his own medicine.  If Steve can be a little shit about this and nearly give him a heart attack, then so can Bucky. “Steve,” he says gravely, fighting to keep the grin off his face, “I hate to tell you this -” he pauses for dramatic effect, although he does feel a little bad as he sees Steve’s body tensing, his jaw clenched as he steels himself for rejection - “but that’s exactly what we’ve been doing.”

Steve blinks. “No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, we’ve been -”

“Dating,” Bucky interrupts him. “We are dating. I don’t know how it managed to escape your notice, but we’ve been dating for a while now.”

Steve throws his hands up in exasperation. “We were faking. It’s not the same, and you know it! Can you please take this seriously for one second?”

“Right, sure,” Bucky says, a lot more nonchalant than he actually feels, but he’s betrayed by the corners of his mouth that he just can’t keep from curling up. “So, let’s play this through. Say we go from fake dating to actual dating, what will we do? Will we...I don’t know, have lots of really great sex? Hang out at each other’s places, watching shitty movies while cuddling on the couch and eating take-out? Make-out when no one’s looking? Go on dates? Fight and then make up?”

“Yes.”

“So…exactly what we’ve been doing,” he concludes with a small, triumphant grin. “Except without planning the expiration date and then putting it off all the time.”

Steve sits in stunned silence.

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky sighs and takes a sip of his coffee. “It crept up on me, too.”

“You son of a bitch,” Steve marvels. “I can’t believe you never said anything.”

“I thought you knew!” Bucky protests. “It was really kinda obvious, when you think about it.”

“Fuck you, there’s no way you actually thought that we were dating before you pointed it out just now.”

“No,” Bucky admits. “I just...knew that it stopped being pretend for me a while ago. It felt like a relationship, because - well, because it pretty much was one.”

“And what if I’d actually asked to stop pretending and break things off completely?” Steve demands. “Would you just have...let me? Would you just have swallowed everything down and never told me?”

“I suppose. If you’d said that’s what you really wanted, I would’ve let you go.”

“You’re an idiot, Barnes,” Steve says, and then takes a deep breath. “Tell me. I want to hear it.”

“Uh...we’re dating?”

Steve balls up his napkin and throws it at Bucky’s face with surprising precision. “Not that, asshole.”

“Right.” Bucky swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. There’s nothing to fear when saying these words, absolutely nothing, not like this, not when he’s absolutely sure Steve feels the same, and yet he can feel himself tensing up, sitting completely still even though it feels like he’s trembling all over, shaking so hard his teeth should rattle out of his skull.

Pathetic, he thinks, to shy away from the words. It’s not like holding them back would make it any less true, like saying them aloud would make him any more vulnerable to Steve than he already is. Steve has the power to destroy him, whether he admits it to him or not. It’s silly to feel like letting the words slip from his tongue would make the threat of getting hurt more tangible, especially when he knows that Steve would never deliberately hurt him. Steve, who is sitting in front of him, quiet and patient. He’d wait, Bucky thinks suddenly, for Bucky to be ready, if he couldn’t say it now. He would probably wait forever for Bucky to pluck up the shambles of his courage underneath all the bravado and get over himself.

Steve, who was brave enough to put himself out there when he didn’t know for sure whether Bucky wanted him. Steve, whom Bucky would’ve lost, would’ve goddamn let disappear from his life without fighting back if Steve wasn’t so much braver than him.

Fuck everything.

“I love you.” Bucky looks straight at Steve, surprised that his voice doesn’t waver. He takes a deep breath. “I’m in love with you.”

The most brilliant smile lights up Steve’s face.

“Your turn,” Bucky says.

“Eh.” Steve shrugs, but he’s still smiling like crazy. “I think you’re passable.”

“You’re the worst,” Bucky complains, but he’s laughing against Steve’s lips when he draws him into a kiss, and he thinks _finally, finally_ , and then Steve kisses him some more and he doesn’t think anything else for a long time.

**∞**

Natasha and Clint are already waiting for him at the bar, eyes red and wearing the most miserable expression he can conjure up.

“What happened?” Natasha asks immediately.

“I took your advice,” Bucky says. “I talked to Steve.”

“And?” she prompts.

Bucky swallows. “We’ve decided we can’t go on the way we were,” he says gravely.

“Oh shit,” Clint breathes. “He broke up with you?”

“We both decided it would be better if we didn’t do...that, anymore. It was a mutual decision.” Bucky scrunches up his face. It must look like he’s trying very hard not to cry, but really, he’s trying very hard not to start laughing.

“Fuck. I’m gonna get you a drink.”

“I’m so sorry, Bucky,” Natasha says.

They look devastated, and God, he was supposed to keep the act up a bit longer, but he feels so guilty he just comes out with the truth. “We’re dating for real now.”

Clint stops still, only halfway to getting up. “Wait, what?”

“I’ll still take that drink,” Bucky says.

“You’re awful,” Steve grumbles, his head popping up from behind the wood that divides them from the booth next to them. “I didn’t even get a good picture of their faces. Three months of this shit because you wanted to make them suffer and get them to feed you free alcohol and ice cream, and you can’t even get to the point where you get one of those things.”

“Like you did any better with Sam.”

“Hey, I got Ben and Jerry’s,” Steve says, coming around and sliding into the booth next to Bucky, immediately tucking himself under his arm.

“You fucker!”

“And you thought I’d be the one who’d be giving us away because I’m a terrible liar. Guess I have a better poker face than you thought.

“You got a better kicked puppy expression is what you have,” Bucky says.

“Doesn’t matter. You didn’t even last a minute! That’s weak, Barnes.”

“Funny, that’s what I wanted to say to you last night.”

“Uh, guys?” Clint interrupts them, gesturing wildly at Natasha, who’s watching them with murder in her eyes.

“Explain,” she demands.

Bucky hazards a look at Steve, who just raises an eyebrow as if to say _your turn._ Okay then. What a great start to the relationship, he’s getting no support from his significant other at all.

God, he can’t even be bitter and cynical in his internal dialogue anymore, because he’s feeling warm and giddy and he can’t stop himself from smiling. “So,” he says, still looking at Steve, “it’s kind of a funny story…”

He’s probably gonna get punched tonight, and he didn’t get ice cream, or alcohol, but that’s okay, because he’s got Steve at his side, cuddled close to him and that’s the much better outcome anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr](http://soldieronbarnes.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [As Lovers Go ( a Keep Making Trouble 'Till You Find What You Love fanmix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10559252) by [zierose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zierose/pseuds/zierose)




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